Images bombarded me. Images of my new pink dress at my seventh birthday party, and the winter coat with the faux-fur collar that I’d loved so much. I’d continued wearing it long after it no longer fit me. And of my first boy/girl dance in sixth grade and the deep blue dress with spaghetti straps that had made me feel so very pretty. And homecoming, in ninth grade, and the slinky black strapless dress I’d worn, coupled with high heels and a flower in my hair. The way Mark had looked at me while we’d danced, the way his hands had felt on my waist, the way his lips felt touching mine.
And then I heard it, the beloved sound of my father humming while he cooked me pancakes. Every Sunday morning when Mom and I slept in, we’d wake to the smell of fresh pancakes cooking on the stove, accompanied by the deep lyrical murmur of his favorite songs.
And suddenly I missed him. And Mom. I missed their voices, their hands in mine, their arms around my shoulders, and their hugs that would swallow me whole. But my father had said to fear people, to stay away from them. And I had done it. For so very, very long.
“Not everyone is dead.”
Eagle’s rumbling words infiltrated the images. I blinked, and they fell away entirely.
“Yes, they are,” I muttered. “Everyone is dead.”
“How old are you?”
I opened my mouth to answer and then paused. How old was I? I didn’t know. I hadn’t thought about it. I wasn’t even sure exactly how much time had passed since I’d lost everything.
“Autumn was fifteen when it happened,” I finally said as the grief welled and grew stronger, even more suffocating. “When it ... when they ... but I’m ... I’m ...” I bit my lip, unable to say more.
His jaw worked, a nervous tic as he ground his teeth together. He seemed angry, and then, as he moved a hand up to stroke the coarse hair on his chin, he looked sad. Or was it pity again? Whatever it was, it was definitely there; beneath the ever-present anger and the aggression was a small spark of emotion that was soft and gentle, sympathetic and caring. And then just as soon as it appeared, it was gone, snuffed out and replaced with ambivalence.
“You’re nineteen.” His voice was flat, as devoid of emotion as his features. “Maybe twenty.”
I stared at him, shocked by the revelation. Twenty years old? How could so much time have passed without my realizing it? I knew it had been long, but I’d never dreamed it had been this long.
“And I’ll call you Squirrel,” he said.
And just like that, the memories were thankfully gone once again. And so was Autumn. She was back where she belonged, dead like everyone else. Only her ghost remained, with flashes of a past long gone.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
Chapter Seventeen
Eagle
The first sign something was wrong was the lack of cars on the road. The second was the lack of people altogether. For weeks now there’d been nothing but panic and chaos, people boarding up their homes with their families inside. Some packed up what they could into their cars and headed who the hell only knew where, while others took to the city streets, looting whatever they could.
Jeffers and I had done what the majority had decided upon. We’d boarded up his home, the larger of the two, securing both our families inside, and then we’d taken to the streets to find food, weapons, whatever we could to keep us alive until the infection, and the anarchy it had brought with it, had blown over.
Because it would eventually come to an end, right? Things like this—disease, rioting, even wars—they always came to an end. Right?
Seated behind the steering wheel of his pickup, Jeffers came to a slow-moving crawl at a city street stop sign and glanced over at me. I was already watching him, waiting for him to come to the same realization that I had.
Something was wrong. It was too quiet, too empty. Our usually busy city streets were now a ghost town when only days ago they’d been chaotic with a madhouse of people. Belongings lay strewn over lawns, sidewalks, even in the middle of the street, and off in the distance, where I knew the local high school to be, a large plume of smoke billowed in the sky.
“Something’s wrong,” Jeffers said, his usually deep voice now an octave higher than normal, and tight with worry.
I grunted in response, unable to speak, my stomach nothing more than a pit of nerves. No shit, something was wrong.
We’d been gone two days longer than we’d meant to be. There’d been nothing left of worth inside the city; the grocery and convenient stores had been picked clean, forcing us into the suburbs and farther to search for whatever we could find. But it had only been a few days. What could have happened in just a couple of days?
“Shit!” Jeffers cursed loudly, and the truck lurched forward as he pressed down on the gas. Tires squealing, he took a hard left, shifting gears as he turned the vehicle and floored the engine. “They’re fine, right?” he muttered, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard with worry.
When I didn’t answer, he cut his eyes toward me. “They’re fine, right? Adler, tell me they’re fine, man.”
“They’re fine,” I said as the sinking feeling in my stomach worsened. My hands, already clutching the barrel of a rifle I had laid over my lap, tightened around the weapon. “It’s only been a couple of days. They had enough food and water. What could have happened in a couple of days?”
Jeffers didn’t answer; his attention was focused on the streetlights looming over us. They were off, dead, just like everything else in the city was and had been for weeks now. Slowing the vehicle, he made a right onto our street, and both of us sat up straighter, craning our necks as he hit the gas and the truck raced down the block, both of us eager to see his home come into view.
They’re fine, I told myself. They’re fine. They’re fine. They’re fucking fine. Because they had to be fine. If they weren’t fine ...
