Chapter Eight
Big Creek, Missouri, USA
Three days later
With a groan, Chloe dismounted the bike and eyed the house under the dim light of dusk.
The double-wide sat on cinder blocks, half hidden by overgrown field grass.
The uninviting, dilapidated appearance spelled safety.
Nobody in their right mind would hide here when there were so many nicer places. Theoretically.
This was the first house she’d come to on the country road. She was too exhausted to pedal anymore, and the bumpy gravel had just about jarred her dental fillings loose. A cruising bike was not built for rough surfaces. It could have blown a tire.
By her guesstimation, the town of Big Creek was several miles up the road. She had lucked out and found an actual Missouri road map at a rest stop welcome center. Thank god for the rare people who still used paper maps because she doubted she would have been able to find Big Creek without it.
Locating her mom’s friend’s house would be a challenge. The address had been in her phone, which she no longer had, and now she couldn’t remember if the address was 1745 or 4517. The street name was Lost something. Lost Canyon? Lost Creek?
In the great cosmic scheme of things, finding the exact house didn’t matter.
Going to Big Creek had been an arbitrary aim.
Before the invasion, she had always worked toward a goal—graduating high school, getting her own apartment, getting a job, buying a used van and starting Waggin’ Wheels, saving money for veterinary school.
Post-apocalypse life had been reduced to breathing, getting food, and avoiding the aliens and colluders. The possibility she could spend her remaining years just existing was unbearably depressing. Too much responsibility crushed a person, but its absence rendered life meaningless.
In pedaling along the interstate, she’d spent too much time inside her own head. It was getting scary in there.
Scary out here, too. Better get inside. The woods rustled with nocturnal critters moving about, a positive sign, but still fraught with disturbing what-ifs. What if the noises weren’t from deer, racoons, and coyotes?
She wheeled the bike down the road to a game trail heading into the woods. Approaching the house from the rear would prevent her from trampling the tall grass and leaving a sign someone had entered.
After the close call, she couldn’t be too careful.
I hope there’s decent food inside. I’ve had enough peanuts, Pringles, and energy drinks.
She’d been eating from the limited selection at gas station convenience stores. Mice had ravaged everything packaged—beef sticks, granola and power bars, candy bars, chips. Nuts and processed potatoes came in cans.
A wooden deck extended off the house. There was a patio set and a propane grill! I can have hot food! In the morning. Tonight, she’d grab a quick bite. After sleeping at a McDonald’s and atop a convenience store counter while mice scurried in the dark, she couldn’t wait to bunk down in a real bed.
Chloe propped the bike against the wall and tried the door. Locked. Figures. If the back had been secured, the front for sure would be, and she’d have to tromp across the grass and leave tracks.
I’m going to have to break a window.
Squinting in the darkness for a rock or a brick, she spied a pot filled with dead mums. What are the odds? She lifted the pot. A key! Bingo!
The door opened, and she rolled the bike into a hot, stuffy kitchen, locking the door behind her. She switched on a flashlight she’d picked up at a gas station convenience store. Light for sure would signal someone had entered, so she’d use it only long enough to catch her bearings.
The tiny, worn, aged kitchen was much cleaner than the gourmet kitchen in the trio’s house.
She tried the faucet. Water! Given the remote location, the trailer probably drew water from a private well.
Without electricity to run the pump, the only available water would come from the pressure tank and the hot water heater, maybe seventy gallons total.
I won’t be doing any laundry. Ha. Ha. She’d fled with the clothes on her back, managing to snag a spare T-shirt from a convenience store this morning.
Searching the kitchen, she unearthed cans of chunk chicken, asparagus, and pears. She set them on the counter to eat in a little bit.
Sweat trickled down her temples. God, it’s hot in here. She raised her arm and sniffed. I stink.
On the other side of the kitchen wall was the living room with a sofa, two well-used recliners, and a good-sized doorstop, formerly the TV.
Down the hall, she found a bathroom, craft room, a tiny spare bedroom, and the “master,” identified by the king-sized bed claiming most of the space.
The owners had squeezed in a huge, ugly chest of drawers on one wall.
The dresser was so close to the end of the bed, she doubted the drawers would open all the way.
Like the rest of the house, it was sweltering. But, while days were hot, temps dropped at night. If she let the breeze in, the house might cool down enough for her to sleep.
She went around opening windows—the master, the living room, and the kitchen, making a mental note to close them before going to bed. No one would happen along the remote country road in the middle of the night, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
After moving the bike into the living room, she returned to the kitchen where she opened and drained the cans and emptied the contents onto a plate.
She switched off the flashlight. In the dark, she ate bland cold chicken, mushy asparagus, and syrupy-sweet pears.
The metallic-tinged meal tasted like survival and freedom.
She washed the plate and deposited the empty cans in the trash.
She’d move it to the outside refuse bin in the morning, where it would sit for eternity or until the metal rusted away, but what else could she do with the trash?
There was no way to dispose of it—you could only move it from one location to another, which wasn’t much different than the way it had been before the invasion, except that no men in noisy, big trucks would come by to take it away so you didn’t have to think about it anymore.
Groping the wall, she felt her way to the bathroom.
There was a skylight in the otherwise windowless room, but she decided to risk using the flashlight, and propped it up on the sink. The up-lit image in the vanity mirror did not flatter her dirty, sweaty, tired, pinched appearance.
After using the toilet, she lowered the lid. With limited water, she’d rather shower than flush. She’d flush after a few pees or if she went number two.
She peeled off her soiled, smelly clothes and stepped into the stall. The showerhead sputtered but then produced a cool drizzle. After soaking herself, she switched off the tap, lathered up with body wash and the lady’s flowery shampoo, then rinsed.
Feeling more human, she shampooed her panties in the sink and draped them over the rack. She didn’t have a bra. After a post-invasion weight loss, her already-modest breasts had gotten smaller, and besides, who was there to notice if she went braless?
The medicine chest yielded an unused toothbrush and some Tylenol PM.
She would have preferred to take Tylenol without a sleep aid to ensure she could wake up quickly if needed.
But she couldn’t find any, and she figured the remote double-wide was about as safe a hideaway as she could find.
So, after cleaning her teeth, she popped a Tylenol PM to ease the muscle aches and ensure she got a good night’s sleep.
Hard counters and squeaking mice were not conducive to a restful slumber.
Padding into the bedroom naked, she rummaged through the dresser drawers. The lady of the house had been rather rotund. Nothing fit. The man’s T-shirt dropped to her knees and drooped off her shoulders, but at least it stayed on.
She dispensed with the heavy comforter—it must have been winter when they got vaporized—and crawled into bed.
She pulled the sheet over herself and hugged the pillow. In moments, she was out.