I think I’m in shock. It’s like there’s this increasing edge of panic to everything. There’s a bruise on my arm from where I pinched myself to check that this is not, in fact, a dream. It’s quite a big bruise. I may have pinched myself several times.Because I would really like to wake up from this particular nightmare.
Meat loaf with corn bread and collard greens were for dinner the night before. Peach cobbler is for breakfast. The man can cook. I think he’s half showing off his skills. Trying to sell me on what a great catch he’d be—post-apocalyptic husband-wise. Guess he’s really hoping for Stockholm syndrome to kick in. And the other half is him making the most of modern amenities while we still have them.
We heard gunshots several more times through the night. Along with the horrible sound of someone screaming in the early hours of the morning. I made Dean call the cops, but he said he couldn’t get through. All of the emergency lines were jammed. No idea if he was telling the truth.
He slept on the sofa. Said it was in case I needed anything, but it definitely had more to do with keeping an eye on me in case of some sort of shenanigans. Every hour or so he went upstairs to make sure the house was secure. To walk the perimeter, as they say in the movies. There’s been no sign of the police or anyone vaguely interested in rescuing me. And as much as I would like to slay my own monsters and heroically save myself, no ideas or opportunities for same have appeared.
My meals are passed through the bars. He’s never unchained the door panel to my cage. Not while I was conscious, at any rate. Testing the welded joints of the iron fencing with my body weight has gotten me nowhere. In the bathroom is a small window up high. But he’s covered it with some sheet metal and bolted it into place. Pity I didn’t think to hide a drill or pry bar in my hair.
It would seem he’s thought of everything.
I am stuck.
He’s busy doing push-ups today. By the time the world falls apart—ifthe world falls apart—he’s going to be in even bettershape. Not that I’m noticing him in a physical way. How weird would that be?
“That’s about the last of the British royal family,” I say, pointing the remote at the TV to change the channel. He handed it over an hour or so ago. I think it was to distract me from my anxiety. Watching the world slowly self-destruct from a distance can get you down. Though I am still not completely convinced humans won’t somehow come out on top. We’re sort of insidious. Us and cockroaches. “Besides the ones that live here. The UK still seems a day or so ahead of us in deaths, if what your friend said is right. You know they plan their funerals years in advance. The royals, I mean. What music and the carriages and the big parade and everything they want. This lot might have to go without all of that, with the way things are looking.”
Dean grunts in reply.
Many of the familiar faces are now gone from the screen. The remaining reporters have an air of grim determination. Like they’re committed to seeing this through to the bitter end.
I don’t want to believe this is going to be as bad as my captor is saying. Only a few hundred thousand of us left rattling around in this country. But it seems far more viable today than it did yesterday. Which is fucking terrifying.
“This should solve climate change, at least,” I say.
Dean snorts. He is such an animal. And yet I am the one in the cage. Make it make sense.
I saw something interesting when he handed over the remote—a bunch of small round scars on the inside of his arm. About the size of burns from a cigarette. He mentioned getting blown up while in the Marines. They could be to do with that, but somehow I don’t think so. I don’t want to empathize with him. Though it does make me wonder about his childhood. He said he didn’t have any family.
Which just goes to show how a man will kidnap you and take you prisoner rather than go to therapy.
And back to the flat screen. Weather reports don’t seem so important when you’re being detained in someone’s basement and can’t go outside. I skip to the next channel.
It all happens so quickly.
The familiar handsome man with neat, short silver hair and a lean, lined face with white skin picks up a grenade. He gives the camera a final nod. It’s a comradely one of respect and acknowledgment. Then he pulls the pin.
In no time at all there’s the roar of the explosion and the screen goes dark.
My jaw just falls open. “Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“This can’t…” I say. “You have to have…”
“Astrid, you know I am not faking this. People getting sick, things shutting down…it all started days before I put you in that cage.”
And he’s right. I know he’s right. This is no elaborate ruse.
“I need my phone,” I say, not for the first time. The thought of not seeing my family again won’t leave me alone. And the fear is real, far more so now than before. “Please. You said we’d talk about it later. But you weren’t interested in discussing it last night. So how much later did you mean? I just want to check that my mom’s okay.”
“She won’t be. Everyone we’ve ever known is dead or dying. I’m sorry.”
“Then at least let me tell her I’m okay.” I scowl. “I need to hear her voice again. I won’t say anything about you. Just that I’m safe. Please!”
With a grim expression, he stands and fetches my phone from beneath some papers and other assorted stuff on the coffeetable. The fucking thing was right there all along. Just a few feet away from me. This asshole.
He turns it on and holds it up to the bars so it can recognize my face to dismiss the security screen. Then he kneels down in front of the cage. “I’ll call your mom and put her on speaker.”
