The Berne Apocalypse (Book 1): Jacob's Odyssey

by Russ Melrose

  "That's okay," I said.

  "Is your real name Jake? Or is it Jacob? I know someone named Jacob."

  "It's Jacob, but I like Jake."

  "My real name's Rebecca," she said, a sour look on her face. "But I like Becky better."

  "Well, how about you call me Jake, and I'll call you Becky."

  "Okay," she said. Then she suddenly brightened up. "I'm going to be in the fifth grade this year. But I'm not going to Beacon Heights."

  I didn't have the heart to tell her there would be no fifth grade this year. Not for either of us. "How old are you?" I asked.

  "I'm ten. I had my birthday in June."

  "That's cool," I told her. "Ten is a great age. I'll bet you're really smart."

  Becky's face lit up. I'd seen the same effect many times before. I'd often tell my fifth graders how smart they were. Giving them compliments and positive reinforcement could work miracles. Most children soaked it up, but there were always a few who couldn't. Children who came from abusive families often had difficulty accepting positive feedback.

  Then I changed the subject. "Becky, were you the one who put the blanket on me?"

  "No. That was probably my mom," she said. "Today's my mom's shower day. So she was up early. She probably put the blanket on you when she came out for her shower. My mom's like that."

  "Oh, okay." I felt surprised her mother would have done that. "So you have shower days?"

  "Uh huh. We take turns. Tomorrow's my shower day. I'll have to get up early though." Becky sighed and rolled her eyes in exasperation. "We take showers at six o'clock when the sprinklers come on. But first we flush the toilets, upstairs and down. Tomorrow's my shower day, next day will be Raj's turn. Then it'll be laundry day after that. My mom does the laundry in the sink. Yesterday was laundry day."

  Taking showers when the sprinklers came on was an inspired idea. The infected would never notice the difference between a shower coming on and the sprinkler system coming on. The sounds would intertwine perfectly and be part of the normal ambient sounds. I made a mental note to keep it in mind. I couldn't believe how good a shower suddenly sounded.

  I sat up on the couch and stretched and yawned silently. Becky seemed to get a kick out of that. She smiled and her cheeks blossomed. I was surprised how comfortable she was with a stranger, especially a possible burglar.

  Becky pointed at my cheek. "What happened there?" she asked. "Did you cut your face?"

  The cut on my face hadn't healed as well as I'd hoped. I'd been overly optimistic. "Yes," I told her. "I cut my face. A small piece of glass bit me on the cheek."

  "No, it didn't," she laughed.

  Becky and I were hitting it off quite well. My dark mood from the previous night had all but disappeared. The morning light often washed away my dark musings. Becky's friendliness had helped too. Not all kids took an immediate liking to me. With some kids, it took time to build up trust. Becky didn't seem to have any trust issues where I was concerned. I had to admit I was surprised. And I couldn't help but wonder why her mother would allow her to come out here and talk to me, which must have been a cue for Sarah to appear, or maybe she'd heard Becky laugh, because she suddenly appeared in the doorway staring at us. She gave Becky an exasperated look and came right over. "Rebecca," she whispered sternly. "You told me you were going to go play in your room."

  "Um, I was mom. But I saw that Jake was waking up."

  "I told you not to bother our guest. Please go play in your room," she told her. "Quietly," she added.

  Becky obeyed her mother and trudged quietly down the hallway in the direction of the bathroom. Right before she got to the bathroom, she turned right and extended her arms to push open a partially opened door I couldn't see.

  Sarah looked at me with an awkward, forced smile. Her arms were crossed again. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

  "No, not yet," I told her. "I guess I'm still waking up."

  "We should probably talk," she said.

  I nodded and she sat down on the other end of the couch. She sat on the cushion and crossed her legs, sitting comfortably erect, facing me, hands on her knees.

  Sarah had changed her clothes and looked remarkably refreshed. She wore stone white shorts and a faded tie-dye t-shirt with a mix of faded raspberry and blueberry clouds against a sky-blue background. She wore no makeup. In the light, her eyes had become the rich dark brown of an acorn. They were big and bright with a shine to them. I was surprised just how big they were. The narrowness from the previous night was gone and she looked like a different person.

  "I have to apologize," she began. "I never thanked you for bringing us food last night. It was inconsiderate of me. I think I was a little tired last night. But I can't really use that as an excuse." Sarah's eyebrows were huddled together in concentration. She looked contrite and ill at ease at the same time.

  "It's understandable," I said, though I wasn't sure why I said it.

  "So, I want to thank you for bringing us the food."

  We were both speaking softly in low tones. The hum of the air conditioner muted our conversation to the outside world.

  "You're welcome," I said.

  But even after the apology, her face remained tight and serious. I could empathize. Apologies often made me feel uncomfortable whichever way they went.

  "I'm thankful for what you've done," she said sincerely. I could feel something coming I was certain I didn't want to hear. Why else would she have thanked me a second time? She had a determined look on her face. "I have a habit of speaking plainly," she said forthrightly. Then she paused thoughtfully before continuing. "Sometimes I can be blunt. I don't mean to be rude, but I need to be straightforward. The fact that you broke into my grandparents' home and broke into here last night makes me feel uncomfortable. I recognize you've helped us a great deal. But there are some things I need to know about you in order to feel... um... to feel more comfortable having you in our home. I need to ask you some questions. If that's all right with you?"

  She was leaning forward now, lightly rubbing her knees with her hands. She suddenly seemed anxious, but I believed she was eager to clear the air.

  "I'll answer your questions as best I can," I told her. I wanted to clear the air too.

  Behind Sarah, I saw Becky's head appear from around the corner of the door jamb. She was spying on us, though I doubted she could hear anything we were saying. I decided not to look directly at her. I didn't want to out her to her mother. But after a few moments, her head disappeared back into the room.

  "Can you tell me why you're breaking into people's homes?"

  I took a breath and tried to relax before starting. I didn't want to say the wrong thing. "I'm working my way across the valley so I can get out of Salt Lake," I told her, making sure to maintain eye contact. "I started in Murray. I find homes that have been abandoned so I can have a place to stay. About a week-and-a-half ago, I ran out of food at my condo. I had to do something. I didn't want to starve." I thought the last sentence might strike a chord with her.

  I chose my words carefully and made sure to avoid phrases like "breaking in" or "eating their food" or "using their stuff." And I made sure not to mention the word scavenge.

  Sarah looked at me a bit puzzled. "How do you know if a home is abandoned?" she asked.

  "It's not really that hard. If a home is shuttered up with the shades drawn or the curtains closed, like your home, then I know someone is likely there. If a home has windows that aren't covered up and there are lights on in the house, then there's a good chance no one is home. Anyone who survived the first week wouldn't have lights on in their home or uncovered windows."

  She seemed satisfied with my answer. Then she asked a tougher question. "How do you know how to break into people's homes?"

  I felt strangely wired as if I were back in college taking an exam. I took another deep breath to help calm my nerves. I didn't know why I was so nervous. I felt like a child who didn't want to give the wrong answer because of what it would mean. I w
anted to make a good impression on Sarah, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. It wasn't because I liked her. She had hardly been friendly. Whatever the reason, I couldn't seem to stop myself from trying to sway her opinion of me, and I answered her break-in question as carefully and as logically as I could.

  "I knew I couldn't break doors in or break windows because the infected would hear me. So I decided picking locks would be the safest way to get into abandoned houses. It was the only idea I could come up with that made sense." I kept using the word abandoned as if the homes no longer had an owner. I hoped it would make my breaking in seem less abhorrent to her.

  Then I explained to her how I learned how to pick a lock. "I went online and watched videos on how to pick a lock. There were a lot of them. I kept watching the videos till I was certain I could pick a lock."

  "But where did you get the tools to pick a lock?"

  Sarah's face had softened and she seemed more relaxed. It was going well. I told her straight out how I got the lock pick set. I told her I'd picked one up from a deserted locksmith shop on 9th East the night I left my condo apartment. And I left it at that. I figured the fewer details I threw out there, the better.

  She pondered my answer for a few moments, then she asked another question—of the softball variety. "And what do you do for a living?"

  "I teach fifth graders at Beacon Heights Elementary," I told her.

  She looked surprised in a good way. "You teach fifth graders?" she asked.

  "Yes. For five years now."

  Sarah relaxed noticeably. Her face softened and the worry line vanished. Telling her what I did for a living seemed to melt the tension between us. And then I wondered if the tension between us had been the reason for my desperate need to make a good impression on her. It made sense. Tense situations and confrontations had always made me anxious, and I always did my best to defuse them. Maybe that was it. Whatever the reason, I felt more relaxed.

  Then she asked another question. "The bat you carry with you. It makes me uncomfortable. Have you had to use it?"

  And just like that I was cooked. I could have lied to her, but I've always been a terrible liar. And I knew it would have been far worse if she caught me in a lie. Leaving details out and choosing my words carefully had been easy. But it was easy because I wasn't really lying. When it came to lying, I had no savvy. None whatsoever. It was the reason I had always avoided playing poker.

  I decided to be perfectly open with her. What did I have to lose? "Yes, I've had to use my bat. I've been attacked a few times," I explained. "I had to defend myself." I left it at that and hoped my explanation would suffice.

  But the worry line was back and she was all tensed up again. "Did you kill any of them?" she asked me, her eyes wide.

  There was no way for her to understand what it was like out there without having been out there herself. How could she? "Not with the bat," I answered.

  She looked at me, uncomprehending. At least for a few moments. Then she grasped the essence of what I was saying. I knew she would never trust me now. That ship had sailed and I wasn't on it. "Not with the bat?" she said, incredulously. "What did you use?"

  There was no reason to hold back now. "A gun," I told her. "I used it last night at your grandparents' house."

  She suddenly looked pale and her body stiffened noticeably.

  And then I wondered why I had been trying so hard to please her. She had nearly gotten me killed with her phone call. Of course, she didn't know that. I'd never said anything to her because I didn't want her to feel bad. But if she hadn't called me, I never would have had to use the gun. I'd just been doing my best to stay alive. Why was that so hard to understand? I thought it ironic that she would be upset with me for using a gun. Hadn't she been the one threatening to shoot me just last night?

  Then I did something out of character for me. I got angry. Really angry. Anger was an emotion I'd never felt comfortable with, and I didn't feel comfortable with it now. It welled up inside of me and needed an outlet. And I gave it one. When I spoke to her, I tried to remain calm, but my voice had a caustic edge to it I couldn't seem to control. "If I hadn't used the gun," I said pointedly. "I wouldn't be here. And if I weren't here, you and Becky and Raj wouldn't have any food." And while I clearly had heard every word I'd spoken, I couldn't believe it had been my voice uttering those words. I had never said anything as bitingly nasty to anyone in my entire life. And I regretted what I'd said immediately. But it was already too late.

  She didn't seem to know how to respond. It was almost as if she were in a state of shock. But she recovered quickly and her face underwent a dramatic change. The tight face with its crimped, fretful features was gone, replaced by a smoothness as cold and remote as an arctic berg. I knew she hadn't been sure about me, but now she was. And there was nothing I could do or say to change it.

  I could have just left, and I'm sure she would have been pleased to see me go, even thrilled. But I couldn't leave. I'd made a commitment to help them. I knew they would never do what was necessary to survive. They would never break into homes to find food if they needed to, and they'd never leave this place. They would sit here and starve in the storage room. And in the end, I knew I'd feel responsible for them, the same way I felt responsible for Alex.

  I was going to help them whether she wanted me to or not. And while I knew I would likely never get back into Sarah's good graces, if I were clever enough, I might be able to convince her to accept my help.

  "I'm sorry," I began. "I shouldn't have said that. I'll understand if you want me to leave. But please hear me out. I came here with the idea of helping you and Becky. And now Raj too. I'd still like to do that if you'd let me. It would only take me a couple days to get enough food to last the three of you maybe six weeks. And there's always the possibility of finding a home with food storage like your grandparents had. If I could find a home like that, I could help you get settled in. Either way, once I've found food for you and Becky and Raj, I'll be on my way."

  Sarah didn't say anything, but I could tell she was contemplating what I'd said, at least considering it. It wasn't as if she had a lot of options, and I didn't believe her distaste for me would keep her from making sure they were all fed.

  I knew the best thing I could do for them would be to teach them how to find homes with food and teach them how to break into them. I had extra lock picks and tension wrenches in the tri-fold. That would at least give them a chance. But I knew Sarah would never hear of it.

  "Where's your gun?" she suddenly asked me.

  I pointed down at the backpack. "It's in my backpack," I told her.

  "I don't want a gun in my house. If you want to stay and help us, then I'll need you to leave the gun outside."

  Sarah's face remained as smooth as the surface of a still pond, not a ripple anywhere. I knew her proposal was as much of an olive branch as I was likely to get. And while I wasn't crazy about the trade off, I'd have to live with it if I wanted to stay and help them. And I did want to help them.

  I knew removing the gun from my backpack was dangerous, even foolhardy, especially after what had happened at her grandparents' home. But I didn't see an alternative. There would be no negotiation here. I knew that. I could hide the Glock outside under the deck and wrap it up in something to protect it, then I could grab it whenever I went anywhere.

  "I'll take the gun out of the house," I told her. "I'll do it right now." And then I asked her if she would warm up some soup for me. She nodded and I grabbed my backpack and headed upstairs.

  I went into the kitchen and laid my backpack on the counter. The salmon fillets I had brought were thawing in the sink. I put the Glock in one of the large freezer bags I still had from my first night out and then wrapped it tightly in a towel.

  Outside, I checked underneath the deck and found a window three feet in from the outside edge of the deck. I hid the Glock by the window. The gun would be out of sight unless someone happened to look underneath the deck. No chance o
f that. The hiding place for the Glock would also work great on two other fronts. I'd be able to reach the Glock easily whenever I left the house, and if I had to, in case of emergency, I could remove the cover to the basement window, open the window, and grab the gun quickly. I decided I wouldn't mention to Sarah where I'd put the gun. She would never approve of its placement near the window, or anywhere else for that matter.

  *****

  After I'd hidden the gun, I headed for the storage room. Raj was engrossed in whatever was on his iPad screen, his face pinched in concentration. When he became aware of my presence, he looked up and smiled brightly and nodded. Raj's hair was as meticulously groomed as it had been during the night, maybe more so. I nodded back at him. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn last night—a roomy, apricot-colored short-sleeved Henley in tandem with white sweatpants. The colors accentuated his smooth mocha skin and black hair. His blanket was folded neatly and his pillow sat on top of the blanket. A pair of expensive-looking leather sandals sat on the floor next to his mattress.

  Sarah had the soup ready for me. When she saw me walk in, she poured the soup into a bowl. I could smell the chicken noodle from across the room. It smelled wonderful. Sarah stood and waited for me. When I got there, she handed me the bowl of soup with a spoon in it along with a glass of water. She handed them to me without saying a word.

  I made my way out to the couch. By the time I sat down to eat, I was famished, and the brothy chicken noodle hit the spot. While I'd never been much of a soup fan, today it tasted like ambrosia.

  I ate my soup slowly, savoring each spoonful while I casually studied the room. The room was sparsely furnished, sparse, but warm and elegant. The walls were a light ecru with white moldings at the top and bottom. The furniture was expensive, hardwood all around. The entertainment center and coffee table were beautiful, warm maple pieces with smooth edges on the corners. The floor had a Berber carpet with beige shadings. Along the same wall as the entertainment center was a small oak bookcase with glass doors. The shelves were filled with books and assorted knickknacks, plenty of angels amongst them. Two framed pictures of Becky stood on top of the bookcase, one with Sarah in it. They stood next to each other smiling and looking happy. Becky's hair looked to be quite long, Sarah's was shoulder length.