Allison Hewitt Is Trapped

by Madeleine Roux

  “Where’s your dad?” I ask, anxious to be out of sight. If I don’t keep my mind busy I’ll start thinking about Collin. I should be more upset, but it really doesn’t surprise me at this point. Ted is right, I have been holding out.

  “He’s in the basement. Mom says you guys found a gym,” Mikey replies.

  “Thanks. Go easy on Dapper.”

  I keep a low profile, sticking to the far side of the arena, as far away from the line check for incoming survivors as possible. Collin is over there, his height placing his dark head above most of the others. He’s there, probably wondering why I’m being so distant, but that’s a conversation that can wait.

  On the way I see Corie sitting in a circle with the Wives, her hands tangled in the thick, shiny curtain of her hair. The Wives are sewing, or knitting, or quilting or whatever it is they do all day. Corie looks strange, too pretty and spry to be sitting in their group. Her head is slightly bowed, her dark hair an unbroken sheet tumbling to one side. She doesn’t see me. She doesn’t see me looking at her sad, faraway eyes.

  As I search for Ned I catch myself whistling “Let’s Go Fly a Kite.” I stop myself, disappointed that my subconscious is determined to undermine me. I find Ned down in the bowels of the arena. We’re not allowed to hook up the treadmills to the generators. Collin has been bold enough to make an exception for me and I get to use generator time to charge my laptop. But sh-hhh, that’s just between us.

  Treadmills aside, there are benches and weights and plenty of ways to get in shape. Ned is teaching me to lift weights. It feels good to put energy toward something tangible, something I can see and feel in the tension of my muscles. I’m woefully out of shape and Ned is merciless, putting me through the army training he experienced years ago. He’s an avid squash player and rowed crew for his university. It’s embarrassing to discover that a thirtysomething dad is in better shape than me, but I try to use that constructively, as motivation.

  When I arrive, Ned is in the middle of a set of push-ups and cries out like he’s been stabbed when he finishes and rolls onto his side. Ned is a bit shorter than Collin, with big swimmer’s legs and a chin as square and sharp as an ironing board. His brassy brown hair is starting to thin above his high forehead. He has a weekend, mow-the-lawn tan and a tightly composed face of pointed, masculine features, except for his rather pretty and unusual lips. I’ve seen prettier L.L.Bean models, but not many. I throw him a towel and he manages to catch it before it hits his face.

  “Thanks,” he says, dabbing at his forehead and neck. “Done upstairs?”

  “If I have to smell one more rank armpit or inspect another funky-ass foot I’m going to give up on life.”

  “Ha ha!” he says, laughing just like that, in short, breathy spurts. His eyes dance as he sits up, groaning like a creaky old corpse. “Shouldn’t it be colder in here? I’m dying.”

  “It’s not cold anywhere,” I say, sitting down on a bench. The ceiling is low in here and everything echoes despite the thickly padded floor. The machines and equipment are brand-new and well-maintained, funded, no doubt, by very generous donors to the university. “There are so many people here now; it’s like the goddamn rain forest up there.”

  “Yeah, but rain forests are supposed to be that way—you know, muggy because they’re jungles, not because of too many freaking—sorry—fucking bodies,” he says, grimacing just like his son. “What’s the matter?”

  “Hm?”

  “You just … I don’t know. Your face sorta fell when I said that.”

  “Oh,” I say, scratching idly at my shoulder. I’m not sure I can play this one off or concoct a suitable lie. “Ted’s being an ass, freaking me out, that’s all.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He says we’re getting too cramped and that it’s dangerous. He thinks maybe the water might be contaminated.”

  “We’ve been boiling everything on a hot plate,” Ned says, resting his elbows on his knees. His legs are covered in dense, curly brown hairs.

  “Yeah, so have we, but not everyone is that careful.”

  “Well, we could expand to other parts of the building, or other buildings altogether. There are plenty of options,” he says. “But you’re not convinced?”

  “What if someone gets in? One of them.”

  “But we’re checking everyone.”

  “I know that, Ned, but still … It’s just … it’s not foolproof, ya know?”

  “Listen,” he says, getting to his feet, his long legs unfolding. “You have to stop thinking like that. I’ve been to some pretty low states of mind in the past few weeks, and you just can’t allow yourself to get that way. You’re stronger than this. I know you are.”

  “Right. You’ve known me all of, what, three days?”

  “That doesn’t matter. You can tell, you just have to. There’s no time for bullshitting around anymore. You just have to look at someone and decide: I can trust you or I can’t,” he says, coming to sit next to me on the bench. His sleeves are soaking wet and he smells faintly of salt and baby powder. I feel like a child next to him.

  “Yeah? I’m not really so good at making those snap decisions.”

  “Well I am, idiot, and I say this: you have to stop looking at the dark side. There are positives here. We have food, we have a roof over our heads and weapons and we have us, okay? You and me. We’re not people who give up. We’re fighters. I can train you. We can train together, and if the day comes when we have to fight here, right upstairs, we’ll do it and we’ll be okay.”

  “Why do you put up with me?” I ask, laughing. “I’m a shithead. I promise I’ll do better.”

  “Good,” he says, getting to his feet. “Just boil that darn water and leave no funky toenail unturned.”

  “Darn?”

  “Sorry, Dadism,” he says. “Corie weaned me off of swearing. She caught Mikey dropping an F-bomb during soccer practice and that was that.”

  We work out. We train. It feels good to train, to feel like a soldier, like I’m working toward something. I know tomorrow my body is going to hate me for this and that every single joint and muscle will cry out in agony and frustration, but I won’t stop. Tonight I’ll talk to Collin and I won’t hold back. I’ll stop turning him away, I’ll stop feeling so fucking … congested.

  Before the workout is through I’m puking in a garbage can, my wrists shaking as I try to get back up on my wobbling legs. I look like total hell and I feel like I’m about to pass out on Ned’s shoulder at any second, but it’s good. It feels good.

  I won’t let Ted get to me. I don’t care if he’s worried—there are people here doing their very best to make sure we’re safe and I’m one of them. If I have to check and double-check every motherfucker coming through the doors I will, and if I have to go around and boil everyone’s water for them, I will. This place is a good place, too good to give up.

  COMMENTS

  Andrew N says:

  October 13, 2009 at 5:20 pm

  It’s Andrew again and just checking in. I sailed past the San Francisco Bay area and things don’t look good. I can’t find a place to dock without getting overrun. Anyone have any tips?

  I’m running low on food, and I’m contemplating fishing. I know it should be a last resort as I have no idea if the fish are infected either. I’ve figured out how to distill salt water into regular water though; so that should help me for a few days.

  Elizabeth says:

  October 13, 2009 at 5:56 pm

  The fish haven’t harmed us yet so I think you can feel safe using them for food. Just inspect them carefully before you dig in. We’ve been killing them and then waiting a moment to see if they reanimate. So far they’ve been safe to eat.

  Dave in the Midwest says:

  October 13, 2009 at 7:03 pm

  Does anyone have any knowledge about what this is from? Please help. Resources limited … anybody found any antibiotics or anything that can reverse it? Please … my son … I have to save him.

  Alliso
n says:

  October 13, 2009 at 9:22 pm

  I’m afraid you’ll have to leave your son to his fate. It isn’t pleasant, Dave, but that’s the reality of the situation.

  October 14, 2009—The Good Soldier

  “Does Corie seem weird to you? Distant?”

  “Who?” Ted asks, his face shoved into a bowl of steaming Ramen noodles. His glasses fog as he roots around in the noodles with his plastic fork.

  “Jesus, Ted, Corie, you know? Ned’s wife Corie?”

  “Hm, I haven’t noticed anything.”

  “Forget it.” Ted continues eating, ignoring me. He’s out of the loop anyway.

  “I’m late,” he says, slurping up the last of his Ramen. “Should’ve been at the med tent ages ago.”

  “I’m worried about Corie,” I say, holding the tent flap aside and peering out at the arena as it wakes. “Do you think I should say something to Ned?”

  “Say whatever you want,” Ted says. “I’ve gotta go.”

  I think—no—I know Corie’s fallen in with the wrong crowd. She’s quickly gone the way of the dodo. I use dodo in the sense that she is simply no longer around. When Evan needs her she’s impossible to track down. He scraped his elbow yesterday playing with Dapper and Mikey and it took me almost forty-five minutes to locate his mother. It turns out she was up on the roof, sitting up there in a semicircle praying with the Black Earth Wives.

  In a way, I saw this coming. Maybe it’s my fault. I feel like I’ve completely commandeered her husband. Ted and I have been monopolizing his time, encouraging him to put us through back-breaking workouts until we’re crawling on all fours, panting like wanderers dragging ourselves across the desert.

  I thought Corie would shape up into a leader around here, but I was wrong. I was hoping to find strength in her. After all, she managed to get two little boys across a wilderness of burning wreckage and flesh-eating monsters. She deserves, at the very least, my respect. But I haven’t found that leader I was hoping for and I’ve watched her drift away, inching out of my reach until her allegiance shifted completely.

  The clipboard is no longer taken from tent to tent in the morning. The Black Earth Wives are contracting, drawing their considerable numbers up and inward, curling up like a dead crab on its back. Between spending time in the gym with Ned and Ted (ha, that rhymes!) and check-in duty, I haven’t been able to keep tabs on the Wives. These days, they’re suspiciously hard to find.

  But this afternoon I had to find Corie. Mikey and Evan wanted her to teach them about geometry, but Corie wasn’t in their family tent and she wasn’t in shouting distance. I was given the thankless task of tracking her down while Evan and Mikey ate string cheese and threw a ratty old tennis ball for Dapper. I’m not even sure he’s my dog anymore. I think he’s officially defected.

  At last I find her. She and the rest of the Wives are being herded back inside by a very distressed-looking Finn. He’s grimacing as he tries to gently shove a particularly rotund old woman back inside the building, his face turning the same garish shade of red as his hair. They’ve tried to go out the northeast exit to the parking lot. There’s a perimeter set up there and a few people standing watch, but it’s by no means safe.

  “You can pray in the gym with everyone else,” Finn grunts, slamming the door shut behind him. He physically plants himself in the way, making sure they can see the beefy assault rifle locked across his chest.

  “But the damned! We must pray for them! To them!”

  “What a bloody nightmare.”

  “Corie!” I shout, wading into the sea of floral cardigans and Clinique “Happy”–scented tennis bracelets. I grab her by the elbow and extract her from the angry mass of housewives. They stay to pout at Finn and his black mood. It’s not hard to pull Corie away; her elbow fits neatly in my palm. “Evan and Mikey were hoping you could do a geometry lesson.”

  We slowly make our way down the dark, low corridor. There’s muted gunfire from outside and the buzzing of soft voices at our backs. I know the Wives are watching us, glaring at me as I take Corie away from them. Corie trembles a little and then draws herself up. I can see the mother, the warrior, creeping back into her face. She’s so terribly gaunt now, it’s a miracle any hopeful light can radiate through her sallow skin.

  “I should teach them,” she says obtusely, nodding to herself. Her black hair settles in a ripple down her back. “Are they very lonely?”

  “No, no, I don’t think so. Dapper is good company,” I say, smiling for her. “They’re all worn out by the end of the afternoon.” She knows all of this and I’m not sure why I have to remind her. Something is up. It’s all too obvious that hanging around with the Wives has sapped her.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “Oh? Yes, everything is fine,” she says. We stand in the doorway just before the opening to the arena. The empty pipes over our heads sing in the chill of the hall. If we go much farther we’ll run into the stream of survivors being brought in from the cold.

  “It’s just … You haven’t spent much time with the boys lately, or Ned.”

  “Hmph,” she says, tossing her hair. “Oh. Right.”

  “I … Sorry? Didn’t mean to touch on a sore spot.”

  “No it’s okay. I just … Forget it, it’s not important, not anymore.”

  I jerk her a little back down the corridor, making sure she can’t escape. It feels awkward to be doing this to a woman older than I am, a woman who should be vigorous and fearsome. I want so badly for her to wake up, to shake off the fog she’s fallen into. It dawns on me that she hasn’t been making friends at all but hiding.

  “Is something going on with you and Ned?”

  “No.”

  “Corie … Come on.”

  “We … We were…” She glances around, her dark blue eyes darting over my shoulders.

  With a shrug she bites down a little on her lower lip. She’s so beautiful, it’s difficult not to cave and comfort her. I can imagine her as a young girl running in the sunshine, her arrow-straight black hair flying in every direction. She must have been stunning, a heartbreaker. “Things between us … We were going to try a separation. I wanted to divorce him but he convinced me to go for a separation first.”

  This is incomprehensible to me. I’m not some huge proponent of marriage necessarily—my mom got along well enough after my dad died and never felt like remarrying—but I can’t for the life of me see the point in divorcing someone like Ned. I want desperately to take Corie’s side, but it’s hard to sympathize when Ned is still energetic and engaged and Corie is looking more and more like an extra from a Tim Burton film. Her skin is ashy around her lips and eyes and I can’t help but wonder if she’s getting enough to eat.

  “Ned seems like a great guy. I’m sure it was just a bumpy patch. All couples go through that.”

  “He is a great guy, that’s why we’re still together. I don’t know.… I feel like such a coward, but I can’t stop thinking about the separation. It’s hard to believe I almost left him.… And then, well everything just went to hell and I couldn’t leave him, not then, not like that. I don’t know why I can’t stop thinking about it, Allison.”

  It starts to make a disastrous sort of sense—the distancing herself, the religion, the malnutrition. I’m sure a divorce, especially now, would be more than enough to test anyone’s faith.

  “Hey, hey, it’s okay. We all go through tough shit and, ya know, people change their minds. They can do that, Corie, and there’s nothing wrong with it. No one has to know, no one. And look, there will be time later to think about all this, about marriages and futures and all that stuff. But right now I think we should all just focus on hunkering down, making this place livable and safe, okay?”

  “Okay,” she says in a very small voice. I let go of her elbow after rubbing it a bit. It doesn’t seem right to let her go without a small gesture of solace. She brushes past me with her eyes red and puffy and her fingertips worrying along the edge of her chin.
If she just trusts, if she just looks at Evan and Mikey, if she sees what she has, how lucky she is. And then I hear a snippet of Mary Poppins music and …

  “Everything all right here?”

  I turn around to find an enormous bandolier of ammunition staring me in the face. When I tip my chin up I find a pair of startling hazel eyes above the bullets. It’s Collin and he’s smiling apologetically. Wonderful. I do not like when large men make this face. It is entirely too charming.

  “Collin!” It comes out in a squeal even louder than the shade of scarlet my cheeks are turning. “Everything is fine, just having a chat with Corie.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “I think so,” I mumble. “Yeah … Getting there.”

  “I see.”

  It’s getting awkward; I can tell he’s about to give up on this conversation, I can feel his shoulders hitching up as he prepares to leave. I can’t have him asking Ted permission to see me. I need to be a grown-up.

  “Can we go somewhere?” I ask. “To … to talk?”

  “Now?”

  “Sure.”

  “Not now, I’m afraid,” he says, looking crestfallen. He’s shaved his hair down short and he’s developed a habit of running his free hand over it as he thinks. It’s a bit like watching a hopeful dreamer rub the belly of a lamp, and I wonder if ribbons of blue smoke will coil out of his nose. But there’s no genie, just a snort of frustration. “Later? Could we do this later?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come by after nine.”

  * * *

  I do, all the while carrying around a queasy knot of tension. I can’t stop worrying about Corie. I can almost feel the Emma compulsion, the forceful desire to make sure she and Ned stick together, to scheme and plot and make them dance a dainty dance of courtship. But that’s a fantasy. There’s no room for that kind of frolicking, no room for risk. They have to stand by each other, if not for Evan and Mikey then for our general survival.