Dry

by Neal Shusterman

  “Hey,” I say coolly.

  “Hey,” Alyssa responds from behind the trash bag.

  “Don’t you think it would be best to do that during the day, seeing as the sun is nearly down? Evaporation and all. . . .”

  Alyssa throws the bag in frustration, “We started this during the day,” she snaps. “Day or night, it doesn’t matter, because it’s not working.”

  She leans up against the wall of their house and goes to take a sip from a water bottle that’s down to the dregs.

  “Save what you’ve got and have some of mine.” I extend my canteen graciously. Alyssa takes it without hesitation and drinks.

  “How much are you gonna charge for that sip?” she asks. “Ten bucks? Twenty?”

  I just smile. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a thirty-five gallon tank, remember?”

  She hands my canteen back to me. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m just on edge. Our parents went down to the beach and they’re not back yet.”

  “It’s been six and a half hours,” adds Garrett, taking his cue to worry from Alyssa.

  I realize it’s my job to be the optimist here—which isn’t a role I’m used to, but in difficult times, you gotta be flexible.

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” I tell her. “The lines must be massive, and getting back might take a lot longer than going.”

  “They’re not answering their cell phones,” Garrett says.

  “I told you, their phones are probably dead,” she tells her brother. “Mom’s phone never holds a charge long, and you know how Dad’s always forgetting to charge his.”

  “Also,” I suggest, “it could be a system overload. Cellular frequencies get jammed in densely populated situations.”

  “Like at a concert!” Alyssa says, unable to hold back a wave of relief.

  “Exactly.”

  “Then right now we’ll just have to sit tight and hope for the best,” Alyssa affirms for herself. I’m glad I can at least inspire the idea of hope.

  Their dog, Kingston, who’s looking sluggish, comes up to Alyssa and nudges her with his nose. His nose is way drier than a dog’s ought to be. I pour some water out on the patio for him to lap up, which he does.

  “Hey—I’ve been thinking about it, and I figured out a new way for you to get water.” I say it mysteriously, like a magician presenting his next act.

  “How?” Garrett asks.

  “I’ll show you!” Then I usher them into their house and stop in the kitchen. “The freezer. Have you scraped the ice from the walls?”

  “Tried that the first day,” Alyssa responds, folding her arms. “It’s a frost-free refrigerator. No ice.”

  I open the freezer slightly. “It’s only frost-free if you leave it closed. If you leave it ajar, water will eventually condense and freeze against the walls. Then you can scrape it off and melt it.”

  “Hey, that’s pretty smart,” Garrett says earnestly.

  I lean nonchalantly up against the refrigerator, accidentally closing the freezer all the way again. “I am ranked second in our junior class.”

  “Not first?” Garrett teases.

  It’s Alyssa who smiles at that. “Don’t tell me,” she says. “Zeik Srinivasar-Smith.”

  I sigh at the mention of my nemesis. “Zeik Srinivasar-Smith.” An exchange student from God-knows-where who’s probably a genetic mutation.

  It seems as if we might be on the verge of bonding, because she seems ready to tell her own Zeik story—because everyone in school has one Zeik story or another—but her attention is grabbed by something on the living room TV. A news report. There’s footage of raging brushfires, and riot police in downtown Los Angeles. And the news anchor—only one instead of the usual two—says, “As a precaution, residents are instructed to stay in their homes, and remain calm.” But in direct opposition to the anchorman’s attempt to soothe viewers, the crawl below reads, Southland declared official FEMA disaster zone.

  Then the TV suddenly goes off. It’s Garrett—he’s turned it off. He keeps the remote out of reach, just in case his sister or I want to turn the TV back on. “I don’t want to watch that—they’re just trying to freak us out!”

  “They’re saying we should stay calm,” Alyssa points out.

  “Yeah, that’s what they said to people on the Titanic when they already knew it was going down.”

  And he’s right. As far as authority is concerned, calm people quietly dying is a lot easier to deal with than angry people fighting for their lives.

  We all stand there in uneasy silence until Alyssa gets down on a knee to Garrett. “It’s going to be okay,” she says, not as sure about it as she’s trying to sound. “It’s too dark to do anything now. If Mom and Dad aren’t back by sunrise, I’ll go find them.”

  And after hearing those words, seeing the look on her face, something suddenly takes me over—this strange, innate force. Kind of like the feeling I had when I shot Mr. Malecki in the chest to save him—a sense of knowing what to do, and doing it, regardless of the consequences. “We’ll go together,” I tell her. “And I’ll stay here tonight, so you don’t have to worry about this alone.”

  Alyssa shakes her head, smirking. “Uh . . . thanks, but no. I’m sure you need this for some sort of merit badge, but I’m not a damsel in distress.”

  I find myself getting angry. Is that what she thinks this is about? Last week, maybe. But today, it’s the furthest thing from my mind.

  “Look,” I tell her in complete honesty, “I know I’m not your first choice for a friend, but remember, there’s safety in numbers. There are a lot of thirsty people out there, and things can get sketchy pretty quick. If I stay, we can take turns keeping watch, and you can get some sleep.”

  “Do you really think we’re going to sleep tonight?”

  “You had better,” I tell her, “if you plan to go after your parents tomorrow.”

  She considers that, and is clearly waffling—irritated by the fact that she knows I’m right.

  . . . And just then the lights begin flickering.

  We all kind of brace—like you do when you think you might be feeling an earthquake. Then the lights go out.

  “Oh crap!” says Garrett. “Oh crap oh crap oh crap!”

  “It’s okay,” Alyssa says. “This happened the other day. They’ll come back on. You’ll see.”

  But they don’t—and the silence now is true silence. The hum of the refrigerator, the breath of the air-conditioner, all gone. And the finality of that silence is so eerie, it’s terrifying. I feel a tight grip on my arm. It’s Garrett. He was closer to me than he was to Alyssa. I’m the closest port in his storm.

  Now we begin to hear voices. Neighbors wondering what the hell is going on, and what the hell they should do.

  What had seemed to be very surreal now has become vividly, luridly real.

  Our eyes begin to adjust to the dim afterglow of twilight lingering in the western windows.

  I know what I have to do.

  “I need to go . . .”

  But before I can finish, Garrett cuts me off. “No! You said you’d stay!”

  And although she doesn’t say anything, I know Alyssa is just as freaked by the blackout as Garrett is. As I am.

  “I need to go,” I say again, “but only for a minute. I need to check on my parents, but I’ll be right back.” And then I take a step closer to Alyssa. I can’t quite see her face in the dim room, which is better for what I’m about to say. “I know you can take care of yourself. I know you don’t need me here. But even so, it’ll make the night a little bit easier.”

  “Okay,” says Alyssa. “I just want to make sure . . . I mean, I don’t want you to think . . .”

  I know where she’s going with this, and I save her the trouble. “Alyssa, just because I’m offering to stay overnight in your house, don’t get any ideas about me getting ideas.”

  She sighs, relieved. “Thank you, Kelton,” she says, then adds, “If it means anything, you’ve been officially lift
ed from ‘creepy dude next door’ status.”

  “You thought I was creepy?”

  Alyssa shrugs. “Kinda.”

  I consider that. “Yeah,” I say, “I kind of am.” Then I leave, reminding them to lock the door behind me.

  • • •

  My house is a beacon of light in the darkness. Off-grid, totally self-sustainable. Inside, my mom’s asleep on the couch, and my dad is still welding away in the garage. They have no clue that the power’s down in the rest of the neighborhood. I don’t engage them, because there’s nothing to say. I leave a note in my room that I’m spending the night at Alyssa’s to help her out until her parents come home. My mother will like it, because it’s something social that doesn’t involve video games and guys who believe deodorant is optional. My father won’t like it, but he also won’t embarrass both of us by coming to retrieve me. I’ll get an earful in the morning, but I’ll deal with it then.

  I place the note on my comforter, then kneel down, reach an arm under my bed, and fish around until I find what I’m looking for. I slide out a black metal case and crack it open, revealing, in all its glory, my silver forty-five caliber Ruger LCP pistol. I pull it out and load the magazine, trying not to be overwhelmed by its beauty and its power—the way its sleek silver barrel reflects light, contrasted by a black matte grip so dominant, it absorbs any and all light that hits it. It’s perfect in its dualistic nature. Light and dark. Today, I feel like I’m something in between the two. And that’s okay. It’s what I need to be right now, if I’m going to be the first line of defense for Alyssa and Garrett. I tuck the handgun into my belt, and hurry down the stairs and out the front door to head back to Alyssa’s . . . but what I see as I come out our front door causes almost every joint to lock up—

  Although every other house is now blackened by nightfall, I swear I can make out figures in the street, faintly illuminated by a low-hanging moon. Most everyone in the neighborhood has stepped out of their home to marvel at our light—like moths entranced by the lick of a hot campfire flame. By having our own electricity supply, my family has made itself the unexpected envy of the neighborhood. And a target. So I stand, body trapped in the doorway, stuck between the threshold of what my life once was and what it will soon be, staring into the dark, a hundred eyes glowing back in the night.

  And I’m scared to the bone, because right now I can’t tell if I’m looking into the eyes of sheep, or wolves.

  DAY FOUR

  TUESDAY, JUNE 7TH

  8) Alyssa

  The next morning I wake up to an obnoxious digitized symphony—the alarm on my phone, which, miraculously, held its charge overnight. It’s 5:45 a.m. Sunrise. At first I couldn’t sleep at all—every sound was my parents coming home, or someone breaking in. But neither of those things happened. Twice I went downstairs to find Kelton doing the Boy Scout thing—reading a book by flashlight, while keeping watch for the nonexistent bad guys he was so sure would be crashing through our windows to suck the moisture out of our veins. It all seems so silly now in the light of day.

  Except for the fact that my parents still aren’t home. No amount of happy sunshine is going to change that.

  Garrett, who had insisted he was okay sleeping in his room, had, at some point, surrendered all macho pretense and crawled in with me. Now he sleeps and is in that blissful place where his only care in the world is what to feed Spider-Man and the various Pokémon who just came over for dinner—or whatever it is that ten-year-olds dream about. I don’t wake him as I slip out of bed and head downstairs.

  I half hope that my parents came in while I was asleep and didn’t want to wake us, but no such luck. In the living room is Kelton, snoring away on the sofa. So much for keeping watch. He was supposed to get me a few hours ago to relieve him, but he tried to soldier through the night on his own.

  That’s when I see the gun. It’s resting on the end table beside him, like it’s part of the décor: lamp, family picture, pistol. He must have hidden it from me when he came back from his house, knowing I wouldn’t approve—and I don’t. It makes me consider demoting him back to “creepy dude,” but worse, because now it’s “creepy dude with a gun.”

  I pick it up and right away find that it’s much heavier than I had anticipated—and then I get a little freaked out realizing that I’ve never actually held a gun before. This thing ends lives. I put the pistol down, but slide it out of Kelton’s immediate reach, and shake him awake.

  The moment he’s conscious, he bolts up.

  “What? What happened? Is everything okay? Did I fall asleep?”

  “It is, and you did,” I tell him. “And now you’re going to take the bullets out of that goddamn gun.”

  He looks at me, then looks away.

  “It has no bullets,” he says. “The magazine is in my pocket—I’m not an idiot.”

  “The jury’s still out on that one,” I tell him, then hold out my hand. “Give.”

  Reluctantly, he hands me the magazine of bullets—and although I don’t want it in my pocket, I’d rather it be there than in his. Then I look at the gun again, furious that it’s even here.

  “I marched against these!” I inform him. “How could you bring one into my house?”

  “You marched against assault weapons,” he says, far calmer about this than I am. “I can respect that. But this is not that. This is a defensive weapon. We may need it to protect ourselves.”

  He doesn’t reach for it and override my objections with bravado. Instead he waits for me to give him permission. The fact that he’s deferring to me makes me feel better about it. But only a little. I reach out and push the pistol a few inches in his direction.

  “You want to keep this for show, fine. But you’re not shooting anybody today.”

  “Understood. But a gun is worthless if you’re not prepared to use it,” he says—probably something his father drilled into his head.

  I look out the window. The street’s empty, but it’s not even six a.m. I’m not expecting anyone to be out there. All I can think about now is my parents, and all of the worst-case scenarios that probably didn’t happen but still haunt me all the same. I try their phones again. Mom’s goes straight to voicemail, but Dad’s rings a few times first, which lets me know that at least it’s on.

  Kelton makes a quick trip home to get tire sealant so we can take all three bikes, and when he returns, he’s suited up in what looks like a duck hunting outfit, fully loaded with survival rope, and a million pockets. I don’t have the energy to make fun of him now, and I’ve come to trust that there’s a reason for everything he does. We actually might need the rope, and whatever other stuff he has hidden away in those pockets.

  Truth is, we need him—plus when it comes to water, he’s the person to know; without him, I’m not sure we’d have the rations to safely make the journey down to Laguna Beach and back.

  I had packed a backpack last night for the road. Beef jerky. The rest of our water, a kitchen knife, although I’m sure Kelton has something much nastier than that hidden in his outfit. I don’t ask. Anyway, I might as well have my own way to protect myself, so I don’t feel I have to rely on Kelton’s Krav Maga, or whatever other lethal martial art he knows. I pet Kingston, and give him a ration of water that I know is not enough but is all I can spare. Then, just before heading out of the house, I flip on a light switch to check the power again. No luck. I wonder how many other neighborhoods are without electricity right now.

  With the bikes now fully operational, we wheel them outside, manually pull down the garage door, and take to the streets. Looking around my neighborhood, I half expect it to be in ruins, but everything appears just as it always was, and I realize the wreckage is more internal.

  We push forward down our street, keeping the dawn to our backs.

  “There’s a path that runs down Aliso Creek Canyon that goes all the way to the beach,” I tell Kelton. “Although I’ve never taken it all the way down, so I don’t know how smooth it is.”

  “
Bad idea,” Kelton says. “It’s all wilderness, and we’ll be isolated. Targets for anyone who might jump us for our water.”

  I want to tell him that he’s being paranoid, but I know he might be right, and it pisses me off.

  “The more we keep to civilization, the more likely that people will be civilized,” he says. Then adds, “At least for now.”

  I turn to Garrett as we leave our neighborhood and take to the bike lane of a major avenue. “How are you doing?” I ask him.

  “Better than you,” he brags. “I ride my bike all the time, and you don’t, so try to keep up.”  The fact that he’s being a brat answers my question—he’s in good spirits.

  It isn’t long before we come to an overpass for the 5 freeway. As I look down, I can see a typical snarl of cars, but somehow this is different. This is bumper-to-bumper traffic like I’ve never seen before. Morning rush hour is usually all about heading north toward LA—but today the traffic is at a horn-blaring standstill in both directions, as far as the eye can see—which eventually disappears into a thick crimson haze, swallowed whole by the sun cresting over Saddleback Mountain.

  Not our problem, I say to myself, a little creeped out. I try to focus straight ahead as we pedal across the overpass, but I can’t pull myself away from the reality all around me.

  “Where is everyone going?” Garrett asks.

  “Anywhere but here,” Kelton answers.

  “Yeah,” says Garrett. “Well, it looks like they’re not gonna get there.”

  I don’t think he realizes how deeply that truth resonates—and on every level. But Kelton does.

  “When it’s time to bail, there are nontraditional routes that most people don’t know. They won’t be gridlocked like the freeways.”

  The fact that he said “when” rather than “if” stays with me far longer than I want it to.

  About five minutes later, Garrett pulls his favorite and most frustrating travel maneuver. “I gotta go to the bathroom,” he says. I tell him to pee in the bushes somewhere, but of course, it’s not that kind of bathroom he’s talking about. I imagine, considering the horrific state of our toilet, even with Kelton’s waterless fix, Garrett has been holding it in rather than dealing with it. But there comes a point at which nature takes over. And always at the worst time.