by Tara Brown
It had been two weeks since she left.
We’d spent most nights listening to the ham radio and eating chips.
But we were running low on chips and the man on the radio was about to die soon. He’d been discussing it a lot.
The radio host, some man with a grizzled voice that reminded me of a loud whisper or maybe he’d smoked his whole life and what was left of his throat was a ragged mess, talked about the passings. That’s what they called them. Passings.
He was part of a group of wing nut conspiracy freaks who thought they were doing something top secret. It was dumb but they were pretty entertaining, and they made it seem as if we weren’t alone in the world. They took away the fuzzy feeling.
I flopped down onto the old futon mattress Owen had dragged over for us, while he played with the knobs until the man was there, the grizzled voice one.
“Last week someone said it’s a virus they put in the air. You know, the ‘theys’ of the world. But I say why? They obviously don't have a cure so sticking something like that in the air is foolish. Not to mention all the rich people in the world are old. In fact, all of Congress is going to be dead in a couple of days at this rate. All we’ve done is kill off the intelligent people. Age and wisdom have left us. What does that leave us with? Not much. And everyone is dropping, whether they’re rich or poor. When this started, no one had a single answer. Everyone who was one hundred or older dropped dead globally. A global extinction. I’m in my fifties. I know when I’m going to die, down to the exact moment. I don't know how I feel about that, but I guess I’m sort of pissed. I have almost nothing left, days, less. And of course I’m spending it here with you assholes.” His laugh was that of a madman, wheezing and coughing. “No one sh-sh-should know when they’re go-go-going to die. It almost makes me think there’s a God. He killed the old, the gentle, and the weak. The people who lived the longest. He let them die without knowing when they would. Now the rest of us are sitting ducks.”
“I think he’s smoking up while he’s talking.” Owen gave me a look. “This guy’s my hero.”
“If I had pot, I might smoke it.” I shrugged.
“Liar.” Owen scoffed.
The man coughed again before he continued, “I don't think the theys did this, they being the government. If it was them, we all know they’re a bunch of racist old bastards. They wouldn't have attacked any of the Reich. This woulda started in Africa and hit India and South America and then suddenly a miracle cure would’ve surfaced. It’s something else. Some think right now the Greenpeace freaks have a better shot at explaining it than any of the government. But my money is on the religious. God is pissed and now he’s showing us what Revelation is.”
Owen rolled his eyes. “It’s clearly not God. There is no God. Why would God kill us off backward so all the babies die last? That's crazy talk.”
The man took a huge drag off his joint and spoke in his ragged stoner tone, “Now don’t go getting all crazy on me because I got so desperate for an explanation that I’ve actually uttered the word ‘God.’ I have to consider all options, we all do. Everyone is getting desperate. And for the record, I still believe there’s a chance this is a government conspiracy. I heard that when all this started, a lot of the uppity ups in the world got moved. I heard they went to Cheyenne Mountain, and they’re hiding from the poisons and toxins in the air. If someone wants to go check and see if this is true, there’s a sneaky entrance into the bunker in the Cheyenne Mountain command center. This is the same place that got a 1.7-billion-dollar upgrade not that long ago. And if the government spending all kinds of money doesn't tell you this is where the mighty will ride this out, then you’re an idiot. The back door is heavily guarded, but the sneaky entrance is off to the side, an old mine shaft. It—”
The radio cut to fuzz.
“What a drama queen.” Owen threw a pillow.
“You don’t think he might be telling the truth?”
“No.” He nodded. “I do, actually. But how many people are listening to that, thinking, ‘Holy shit, a place to hide and survive.’ People are getting desperate. Half the population of the world is going to be dead in a week, Zoey. No one’s got an explanation. If he has a reason, they’ll listen to him. If he has a way to stay alive, they’ll listen to him. These guys do everything to get people to listen to them. If he cut the show, he just made sure everyone believes what he was saying. And now he’s gonna die with the fifties and we’ll all remember him.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you think the government cut his show before he could reveal the location?”
I didn't need to nod, Owen knew I was gullible.
“Oh, Zo.” He laughed. “No. He so did that to make it more believable. A sneaky tunnel into the mountain range where the president is probably going to hide? Please. What is this, Terminator? We hear it on his radio show and that's how we survive the apocalypse of people dying according to their age? I’m afraid this is going to hit everyone everywhere. Hiding in a tunnel with a bunch of dying people is a crappy way to spend your last weeks.”
“It sounds legit to me.”
He nudged me, closing his eyes and sighing. “If there is a bunker out there that can survive the curse, I’ll take you. Colorado isn’t so far, a few days’ drive. But I’m telling you now, they probably tested this out. I bet the moment the nineties died, they took people in their eighties and put them in deprivation chambers and anti-gravity chambers and sealed them up. And I bet those people still died. Whatever is causing the death, is in us already.”
That didn’t make me feel better.
He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and snuggled me, taking in breaths of my hair. I hated when he did that, mostly because I loved it.
“But I don't think it’s God. Every week a whole generation is going to die until there is nothing left but nature. This is her way of paying us back for every minute since the Industrial Revolution.” He was probably right. He was pretty smart for a quarterback.
An odd sound interrupted my contemplation of nature attacking us. I focused on the sound and thought about it for a moment.
It was my doorbell.
I hadn’t heard it in ages. The last time was a few days before she left. It was books she had ordered from Amazon before the eighties died. I heard the doorbell and then her laughing. The man was friendly and funny, making jokes about how Amazon was still delivering.
Now I sort of feared the damned thing. Who would be coming to my house? And why?
“Stop whatever is going on in your head.” Owen lifted me up and dragged me down the stairs. “You expecting anyone?”
“No,” I said nervously and flicked on the light, though it wasn't completely dark out. It was only September so it was warm and the setting sun was bright. I pulled back the curtains to see Elijah and Mike standing in my doorway with a girl I once thought was my best friend, Sammy. She lifted a bottle of Crown Royal into the air and grinned through the window.
“Shoot.” I swallowed hard and gave Owen a glance before unlocking the door.
“I knew you’d be here.” Sammy hugged me as the guys patted me on the head and punched Owen in the arm. “You never leave the house. And I heard you were having people over tonight.”
“You mean you told people I was having people over?” I groaned.
“What? Me? Never.” She blushed, shrugging. “Does it matter? Your mom is still visiting your aunt. Let’s drink and have fun. We only have weeks left.”
I hated this about my generation.
They wanted something epic so badly that they thought dying in a worldwide pandemic of death was cool. The Walking Dead and The Hunger Games had warped us. They didn't see that everything would be over, there would be nothing. And worst of all, like Owen said, the babies would die last.
I was missing the gene that made this whole thing exciting. But I’d never been much of a teenager or a YOLO kind of girl. I suspected Owen also wasn’t jazzed about dying.
“Stop looking so worried. It’s gonna
be fun.” Sammy turned me around and forced me to walk.
“My mom’s home tomorrow so we can’t destroy the house, okay?”
“We won’t!” she squealed and hurried past me to the kitchen. “I had to sneak out of my place. My parents have started stockpiling like it’s the apoc—I mean, I guess it is but whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, Zoey, you’re the best.”
A year ago, when I was “dating” Owen, I wasn't the best.
I was the worst.
She hated me but pretended we were fine. We weren’t fine. And the day he “broke up” with me, suddenly she was my best friend again. I struggled with us being okay now. She trash talked me constantly. But I couldn't blame her. I wished I could’ve told her he was gay and I was a beard, and dating the star of the team wasn't the glamorous life we had imagined. But I didn't. I let her think I was an asshole who dated the guy she liked, the guy I knew she liked. Just like I let him think I was really good at pretending to love him. And the real secret neither of them knew was I loved him, for real. No one knew. I deserved an Oscar, really.
Her eyes drew to him as she poured the drinks, making me think she still didn't know the great secret Owen hid. Few did. Most who had heard didn't believe it. He was Owen Bradford, for God’s sake, and small towns in Virginia weren’t exactly accepting.
Sammy passed me a cup of Crown and soda and tilted her head to the side, blocking her mouth from the three guys laughing and talking about the last game. “Are you guys hooking up again?”
“God no.” I couldn't fight the disgust on my face so I sipped the drink in my hand to stop myself from shuddering. But the drink didn't help. I hated alcohol and Sammy poured with a heavy hand. “We’re just friends. He’s avoiding his dad, hanging here. He promised my mom he’d stay so I wouldn't be alone.”
“Not even a little bit of hooking up?” She winked, not knowing how cruel of a question it really was.
“No.” I didn’t enjoy the game girls played with me to find out if Owen was single or not. “He’s not seeing anyone. He’s very single.” I was being straight about his status. It usually meant they’d leave me alone to lick my wounds.
She grinned wickedly. “Excellent.” She downed her drink and poured herself a second one. Apparently, she planned on getting trashed while attempting to win him over. Not excellent for him but might prove entertaining for me to watch him reject her.
The doorbell rang again.
“Oh good,” I whispered, starting to get nervous about how many people would come. I’d avoided leaving the house except to work, so people wouldn’t suspect Elaine was gone. But now word would be out.
“I’ll get it.” Owen hurried to the door with a little too much skip in his step. I could guess who was behind the door, simply by the way he answered and the tone of his voice. It brought a smile to my lips that the world was ending and Owen was still smitten with Westley.
Of course watching him walk into my house made it obvious why. He was hot. He was Owen’s level of hot, but in a completely different way. He had lighter brown hair and piercing blue eyes cased in inky thick lashes. His skin was golden, even in the winter, and his smile caused a single dimple to sink into his right cheek. He was not quite as tall as Owen, but still over six feet. Only he was leaner, a running back with a sprinter’s body.
Where Owen was thick and strong and handsome, Westley was prettier. Hollywood hot.
Coming from me that was a huge compliment. The fact I even noticed him was a compliment. I didn't do crazed teenaged girl, never had.
I was going to die a virgin, one who scratched her arms when she was lost and hid the scars with sleeves even in the summer.
Westley walked over to me, carrying a six-pack of beer. “They’re selling to minors now, sixteen and up.” He grinned, it was lopsided and sexy. I completely got why Owen was so hung up on him. Honestly, every girl was. Half the moms were too. Between Owen and Westley, every female at games was a mess. “You okay?” His smile fell away.
“Yup.”
Didn't I look okay?
Did I look bad?
When had I checked in the mirror last?
Owen was right, I really was the worst teenager.
“How’s it going?” I asked, adding something because he continued to stare, and I didn't know if he’d said something else or not.
“Good,” he offered back.
He made me nervous, he had ever since the kiss. It was random and weird. And he was off limits, being the one boy Owen loved more than anything, which made the kiss that much weirder.
Forgetting how it tasted, I casually sipped from my drink, shuddering again.
The near gag brought a solid chuckle from Westley’s lips. He pulled two beers from his six-pack and handed me one, taking my drink and sucking it back shot-style and cringing. “Damn, Zo, why’d you pour so much booze in it? It tastes like shit that way.”
“She poured.” I motioned my head at Sammy who had Owen cornered. He was giving me that look, the one that screamed “save me.” But I was done being his beard. The world was ending, his dad would be dead tomorrow. He needed to figure this one out on his own.
“That makes more sense.” Westley leaned against the counter, next to me. I turned my back so we were both facing everyone, casually leaning against the counter. We were casual. I was casual. God, I hoped I was casual. I had to stop thinking the word “casual.” Sipping the cool beer made it easier. I felt casual with the beer in my hand.
Okay, last casual . . .
“I know you’re alone,” Westley whispered softly, so softly I almost missed it. “My dad and mom left too. Left my little sister with my cousin. She’s twenty-one and just had a baby. They figured Coral could take care of Liz and I could take care of me, and they could be alone somewhere when they died. Somewhere we wouldn't have to watch.” He stood closer. Behind our bodies, his warm fingers ran along mine until his hand had eaten up mine. He didn't meet my eyes or try to relate to what I was thinking. He sipped from his beer with one hand and covered my hand with his other. “If I had kids, I would’ve stayed with them. I wouldn't have left them alone.”
“Me either.” I turned and gazed up at him, completely shaken by the whole thing.
When his eyes hit mine there was emotion in them, realness. I’d only seen the look once, the night he kissed me. “Maybe I don't want to spend all these weeks waiting to die alone.”
I turned my hand over so I was less a victim of the embrace and more a participant. “You won’t. Stay with me and Owen.” Owen would love that. “We can all go—pass together.” I didn’t think I could say die in that context.
“Thanks, Zo.” He didn't say anything else. He glanced back at the party as it slowly swelled with every ring of the doorbell. He didn't join in or let go of my hand or seem as jovial as when he came in. Perhaps it had been an act. A mask. A brave face. They were common.
We stood off to the side, watching everyone else for a long time. Finally, Owen’s eyes found us, offering a look like he might come over, but I shook my head subtly. It wouldn’t be a good time for him to joke around with Westley just to watch him smile. Westley might have run out of smiles.
Maybe forever.
And that would’ve been the true tragedy of this whole thing.
They partied all night, but eventually I couldn't pretend to be interested. I said goodnight to West and told him to sleep in my room, before I made my way to the ham radio and listened to the white noise until I fell asleep on the futon.
I slept without dreaming which was a nice break.
When I woke, it was morning.
The fifties would die in a couple of days.
And we would be that much closer to the end of our existence.
I got dressed and hurried downstairs, groaning when I saw the mess.
Everyone was gone, fortunately, but the chaos left behind was next level. I grimaced at a blown-up bag of popcorn that had been left in the microwave.
“You up already?”
Westley asked as he came in the back door with a garbage bag.
“Oh my God, are you cleaning?” I asked excitedly, ignoring his question.
“Yeah. It’s bad. They’re all sleeping in the tree house. Assholes,” he muttered and wandered into the kitchen, picking up garbage and adding it to the black bag.
“Thanks.” I grabbed another from under the sink and started helping.
“Thanks for letting me stay, Zo.”
“West,” I paused, trying not to furrow my eyebrows, “we’ve known each other since we were babies. We can pass together.”
The wording or my expression or just the idea of what was coming—something, twisted him up. The change in him was obvious.
He held his breath then burst, “I can’t catch my breath. It’s too heavy.” The confession was heavy, so intense it crippled me. I tried to think what Owen would do in a moment like this, if it was me who was heavy and lost and feeling out of sorts. I rushed Westley and wrapped my arms around his torso, snuggling my head into his chest.
His reaction startled me. He dropped to his knees and buried himself in me, sobbing. He made no sound, like Owen. He cried silently and I knew his pain. His heart was so broken, he couldn’t feel it anymore.
7
The painting
Celeste
The sight of her filthy but tiny ballerina slippers floating in the air, swaying with the soft wind coming in the window, casting a shadow, made me wish the scene were a painting and not real life. I told myself to see it that way, as art, and appreciate the beauty of the ribbons and the scuffs on the shoes from her dancing. To observe how the artist had managed to capture the subtle muscle that was noticeable in her swaying legs.
I’d stepped into the apartment, frozen, and was stuck there, staring at the scene. I didn't know how to get out or walk away or what to do.
Gagging, I whispered forced words, “It would be oil on canvas, a huge canvas.” My voice cracked but I continued, “Painterly with visible strokes of the calves and shoes and thin ankles. But then, where the shadow is cast on the pale plaster wall, I would like to see them sharper, more defined. Same as the plaster marks on the walls. Rough and defined. Textured shadows with grays containing a hint of purple. Not as dark as the color of her face, but something close.”
