CHAPTER FOUR
SUNDAY
Fortunately, the fire doesn’t burn down the neighborhood during the night. The local neighborhood watch crew get it under control and we’re safe for now. But disasters, natural and otherwise, are befalling the country. Take the jumbo jet crash-landing in the middle of Manhattan. Or the gas tanker exploding and taking out a chunk of Peoria. And the storm about to make landfall in the Florida Keys is terrifying. Not everyone is dying of the virus and no one is coming to help us. Which is a lot of non-cheerful news before coffee. And I really need coffee.
I didn’t sleep well, tossing and turning. Then, when I finally did get to sleep, I dreamed of my family and woke up crying. The urge to crawl into a ball, pull a blanket over my head, and try to ignore everything is strong. Just rot in bed and let the world end without me.
The other event this morning is finding the neat piles of my belongings sitting within reach of my cage. “Oh, good. You’ve been going through my underwear. You know that normally happensbeforekidnapping, right? There’s an order to how these things escalate. It’s like Stalking 101.”
Dean is standing in front of the TV. “I went over to your place last night to grab a few things. Thought you might be ready for a change of clothing.”
“Was anyone around?”
“No,” he says. “I heard one of your neighbors coughing inside their apartment, but didn’t see anyone. I don’t think many people are left now.”
“Does that mean you’re going to let me out?”
“Let’s just wait and see.”
Which means no.Asshole.
He’s left me a coffee in a takeout cup as per usual. Breakfast this morning is overnight oats with blueberries. The reporter onscreen has dark circles beneath her eyes and her hair is tied back in a loose ponytail. This is probably the first time the news of the day has been given by a woman in a Dolly Parton tee. I, for one, salute her taste in music, even if it does portend the end times.
It’s hard to understand what I am seeing at first, what they’re showing us…the footage is blurry and the camera is shaking. But soldiers are shooting at unarmed people out after curfew. Just gunning them down on the street.
This is incomprehensible. Like something out of a movie.
“Guess they had people still standing to enforce it after all,” says Dean unhappily.
“They killed them. They just killed them.”
“Yeah.”
I shake my head. “Maybe we deserve to get wiped out. It’s getting hard not to notice that we kind of suck as a species.”
“Humans aren’t a monolith, Astrid. We have good and bad. Don’t give up on us just yet.” He clears his throat. “I had a look at your place, but you don’t seem to own any sensible footwear. The Converse were about the best I could find.”
“Excuse me. I have great taste in shoes.” I reach for the coffee with a shaking hand. This whole situation, grief over my family and friends, is getting to me. “And are you seriously planning on us hiking all the way to this idyllic cabin in the woods?”
“No. But we may need to do some walking and possibly climbing to get around traffic jams and so on.”
He’d made sensible choices when it came to my clothing. Another pair of jeans and a couple of tees. Several pairs of my thicker, less decorative socks. Besides the clothes, there’s a couple of books off my bedside table, and a selection of photos ofmy friends and family. The ones I had hanging on my apartment walls. He ditched the frames and put the pictures in a waterproof bag for me.
It was a considerate thing for him to do. But here I am, still sitting in a cage, so I’m not saying thank you on principle.
Strange how my life can be reduced to just these few meaningful things. There’s an apartment full of stuff I’ve collected across the street. How much would I take with me when it comes down to it? That’s the question.
The reporter is busy repeating headlines from earlier when the TV dies. Same goes for the light on the ceiling. With the windows covered, we’re completely in the dark down here.
Dean appears a moment later with a flashlight in his hand. He fetches a small camping lantern from one of the storage boxes and passes it to me through the bars. Then he goes about the process of pulling the soundproof padding off the high windows to let in the sun. Guess he’s no longer worried about me yelling for help. Perhaps he figures there’s no one out there who cares.
“I wonder if the power will ever come back on again,” I say.
“Not all of it. Or not for a long time. The world’s going to look very different for a while. I’d say a few generations at least.”
The sound of tires screeching comes from outside as some maniac races down the road. It’s accompanied by shouting and gunshots. Seems someone is having fun running wild. Nice to know the end of times isn’t getting them down.
“I can’t do much about the TV,” he says. “But would you like a lesson in stripping and cleaning a gun?”
