How did he escape unscathed? Maybe it’s this place. And if that’s true, I don’t even deserve six weeks of respite. Six weeks is too long. No more delays. I have to get better and get going. Alexandria awaits.
“Nothing,” I say. But already there’s a sinkhole in my gut that I know will become a pit when I have to say goodbye to Jamie.
Jamison
ONCE ANDREW’S LEG IS FRESHLY WRAPPED, Ihelp him up onto his good leg and hold the crutch out to him. “I’ll try to find you a real crutch when I go into town on a supply run. But for now, this will help you get around a bit.”
“Fabulous. I’m thrilled to be serving you Tiny Tim realness.” He says it with what sounds like a hint of frustration, and my eyebrows jump up.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s great. I mean, I really appreciate you helping me.”
It hasn’t even been a full day, but having him here gives me something to do. Something to distract me from the silence and the memories and the fear.
It also doesn’t hurt to have someone to talk to.
Just by being here, Andrew helps me in a way I didn’t think I needed.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get some breakfast going.”
I help him to the kitchen and sit him down at one of the tallbistro chairs in the corner. He sits on the edge and his leg sticks out toward the stove, which is still hot from the logs I threw on earlier this morning.
Andrew picks up one of the old newspapers I use as kindling to start the fire. He won’t find much in there. It’s from early August, before my mom and I came out here, and it’s filled with shortened obits and rumors about the NIH creating a possible vaccine.
Andrew gives the paper a long look, humming. “Yes, I’ll have the scrambled eggs topped with cheese and Heinz ketchup, turkey bacon, and a side of whole wheat toast with the house-made almond butter. And a glass of orange juice, please.”
Smiling, he hands the newspaper back to me. I hide my own smile and throw the newspaper back on the pile.
“Canned baked beans and a Pop-Tart it is.”
“You have Pop-Tarts?”
I open a cabinet and pull down one of the boxes I nabbed from a store in town several months back.
“Skip the beans, I’ll eat the whole box.” He holds out his hands, grasping for it like a toddler.
“You need to up your protein intake to help you heal.”
“It’s a little hard to find good protein sources in the apocalypse, Jamie.”
I open the freezer and show him the stores of meat from the fall.
“What is that?” Andrew asks me.
“Deer.” I take one of the small packages and move it to the fridge. I’ll make a chili with it tonight for dinner.
“You can hunt?”
“My mom taught me.” Technically it’s not a lie because she did teach me. There’s enough meat left to sustain us for a little over eight weeks. Any longer than that and I’llhaveto go hunting. The idea gives me anxiety deep in my gut. But if it’s between starving to death and killing an animal, I’ll kill the animal. I wasn’t a vegetarian before the apocalypse, so it shouldn’t be a problem now.
That’s a lie; ending a life yourself is different from buying a pound of meat wrapped in plastic from Whole Foods. Perhaps on another supply run I’ll find a restaurant with solar panels that powers a walk-in freezer stocked with meat for years.
Yeah, we’re gonna starve to death.
The anxiety in my stomach constricts like a snake. Maybe I could show Andrew how to hunt when he gets better. Tell him what to do and he can be the one to pull that trigger.
I throw some beans in a pot on the stove and place a pack of Pop-Tarts on the counter. It’s gone quiet and I don’t like the silence that much, so I make small talk while I stir.
“You left Connecticut, and where were you going?” I remember the address in Alexandria that fell out of his book. Out of the corner of my eye I see him bristle slightly.
