Chapter 7
My heart leaps up into my throat at the sound.
I’m convinced that it’s Chase out there, ready to talk me out of going.
Which, after a minute of complete and utter panic, I tell myself is ridiculous.
Why should he? He has to know that my leaving the Grave is the best thing that could happen to both of us.
It’s easy for me to avoid Hallie’s face just by getting rid of any mirrors. Every time he sees me, Chase has got to be reminded. And that’s not fair to him.
The knocks are hesitant and soft and they don’t stop. There’s a break between tapping, but I get the feeling that, whoever’s out there, they don’t plan on going away anytime soon. It’s not Jack. My dad would pound away so I’d let him inside. And Chase… no. It can’t be Chase.
So who is it?
Setting my pack on the landing, I start toward the front to see who’s out there when I notice that the sound is growing fainter.
I stop. It’s not coming from the front door at all. It’s coming from the back.
My curiosity is piqued; the Grave is not a back door community. Pulling the curtain aside, I peek out of the window that oversees the back porch and stare for a few puzzling seconds.
Huh.
Throwing open the door, I see a fragile blonde woman standing there, her big blue eyes wide with anticipation.
Denise. She lives a couple of condos down from us—and it’s actually hers from the before days—and is holding a bundle of black fabric close to her chest. She’s brought me one of her black hooded sweatshirts, saying that since we’re both petite, it would fit me better than Rory’s jacket.
Plus, the hood is enough of a disguise in case I want to pretend I’m a lurker.
She gives me a quick hug, then scurries away before I can say a single word to her.
I’m left standing there with my lips slightly parted, holding a sweatshirt that smells surprisingly of cotton candy.
One of Rory’s old friends comes by soon after.
Lisa has two empty bottles of vodka, and she tells me to add them to my collection for firebombs; they’re not completely empty either, she confides, since one or two drops of the alcohol will add to the flame.
I take them from her gratefully, knowing that I’ll have to leave them behind.
A bag of glass bottles will only slow me down, and who knows what sort of monsters I’ll attract with the incessant clinking. But the thought’s still there.
I just wish I knew why.
The knocks are never-ending after that, my neighbors all stealing up to the back porch with little trinkets and good wishes.
Even Mrs. Baker brings me a plate full of chocolate chip cookies as one last treat before I go.
None of them knock at the front door, almost as if they’re afraid of coming face to face with Jack.
I don’t blame them, and I thank each and every one of my neighbors, not only for what they give me, but because it seems like it’s all their blessing for me to go.
It doesn’t take me too long to pack my bag, though the interruptions make it a tougher task than it should be.
It’s an old backpack of mine, from before the world Turned and I used to go hiking with my brother.
Dark green and trimmed with black, it won’t stand out in the darkness.
It also has plenty of pockets and pouches to hold whatever I’m bringing.
A change of clothes, spare socks, a can of hairspray, a brush, a stick of deodorant, some mouthwash, and about twenty-five books of matches all go into the main pouch.
I add eight lighters, a tightly sealed container full of gasoline tucked safely inside of two Ziploc bags, plus three ripped pieces of washcloth just in case the opportunity to make a rig comes up.
On the off-chance I come across a random mirror and can’t control myself, I tuck tweezers in with the lighters.
Lastly, I add a picture taken of my family last Christmas, right before the Turning. I don’t really like to look at old photographs, obviously, but… I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right not bringing one with me.
In a way, if I bring Mom, Jack, Rory, and Hallie with me, it’s not like I’m really going out on my own for the first time.
I’ve just tugged the last zipper closed on my backpack when I hear the back door opening downstairs, shutting just as quickly. I freeze, barely even breathing as I listen—
“Allie?”
My stomach twists.
Shit.
Jack.
Hiding up in my borrowed bedroom is pointless. I have to get this over with anyway so it might as well be now.
Leaving my pack on the bed, I head right for the kitchen.
“Hey. You called for me?”
I expected to find Jack leaning against the counter like he spent our morning chat. Nope. He’s sitting at the table again, though he isn’t pretending to drink Chase’s leftover coffee. He has a glass of water in front of him instead, plus a pair of brown pills. His hand is over his face.
I zero in on the pills. Aspirin from his private bottle, I recognize, guts twisting in guilt. Shit. He only dips into that bottle when his migraines are unbearable.
Me, I think. I caused this headache.
I bite down on my bottom lip, waiting for him to acknowledge me. I… I really don’t want to do this. If I could just grab the pack, dash out the back door, and leave without having to see the fear and the worry he’s struggling with, I would.
But I can’t, and not only because he finally scrubs his palm down his face. He drops his hand to the table, showing me a pair of red-rimmed eyes and a shaky frown and, fuck, I should’ve taken the coward’s way out after all.
“Allie,” he says, his voice scratchy, “please, sit down.”
Jack looks like he’s aged ten years since this morning.
Part of me wants to ask him why he tried to keep the stranger’s arrival from me; the other part hasn’t forgotten he had pancakes with Chase and hid that, too.
I stay quiet. I’m leaving. There’s no denying that.
Why make my last conversation with my dad an argument?
Because it could be. My last conversation with him, I mean.
That unsettling thought overwhelming me, I grab a seat, yank it back, drop down onto it. I can’t look at Jack. Suddenly, it’s as though the grain of the wood on our adopted table is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t stop staring at it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he places the two pills under his tongue, takes a swig from his glass, and tilts his head back.
His Adam’s apple bounces as he swallows.
He winces as if even the sound of the glass hitting the table is too much for him.
This migraine must be terrible. I’ve only ever seen him get like this after Mom…
I shake my head, pushing that memory roughly away.
“Jack,” I say, and I murmur so that I don’t aggravate his headache, “don’t you think you should lie down? I can…” I gulp, but then I tell myself it’s for Jack and I continue, “I can go get Eddie or… or Chase or someone, they can take over for you. You should rest.”
Sleep is the only thing that really kills his migraines. Sleep and dark and five fucking minutes of peace—but I can’t give him that, can I? Just like he won’t let even his right-hand man know about his headaches.
He shakes his head gingerly. “Can’t. There’s not much time left. Besides, I, unh—”
He’s wincing and, though the shade in the kitchen is drawn, there’s enough natural light filtering in to make the pain worse. I know why he hides his migraines, suffering alone. They don’t happen all that often, but the others might judge his abilities as the Grave’s leader if they knew.
That, plus how anything that makes you seem more like a lurker than a survivor is always suspect.
Lurkers are so debilitated by the tiniest bit of light that they can’t step foot out of their dark dwellings until the sun has gone down.
Flashlights slow them down almost as well as a survivor’s stare, street lamps keep them from breaking into the Grave, and fire burns them to ash.
Right now, watching Jack gulp and wince and fight the light-sensitivity that comes with a migraine, I would be reaching for my lighter if I didn’t know better.
“Okay,” I relent, “then why don’t you close your eyes? You might feel better.”
He sighs. “I could, but then I wouldn’t get to see you anymore. And if this is it, I’m going to treasure every last glimpse I have left.”
My fingers flex. I grip the side of my chair, holding on tight. “Jack… Dad—”
“Humor your old man, honey. It’s bad enough that I have to let you go. Just sit with me, let me spend some time with you. I never—I mean, it would be nice to be here together, Allie. Even for a few moments.”
Back when he was a firefighter, it was always me and Hallie and Mom; Rory followed in Jack’s footsteps and volunteered right out of high school.
Rory would sometimes take me hiking and camping, acting the part of my dad because Jack was always working.
It didn’t get any better after the Turning.
To help him grieve Mom and Rory more than anything else, Jack took over the Grave.
It was usually just me and Hallie fending for ourselves.
I’ve seen more of him these last six weeks than in the last six years, and, yeah, I resented him for it, whether I’d admitted that before now or not. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to miss him. I am. Tears sting my eyes at that realization, and I swallow roughly, forcing them back.
Jack is the only one who can make my tough facade crumble. The back of my throat is burning. Fuck me. This is harder than I thought it might be.
“I have a gift for you,” he says.
I can’t speak. I just nod.