25. Chapter 25 #2
Upon entering, an odd musty smell assaults my nostrils, and I eye the doilies lining every surface with crystalline figurines of religious scenes between.
The entrance faces the stairwell leading to the second floor with a long hallway beyond. To the right, I find an older man, who I presume to be Harry. He looks up with a faded twinkle in his eyes when we enter and Lottie says, “Look who’s come to see us, Harry.”
“Oh,” he says, touching the tuft of hair stretching across his forehead. Lottie points to the ancient couch while I eye Harry’s foot propped on two pillows and wrapped in a bandage.
“It’s been so long,” he says. “Any news?”
I don’t particularly want to rehash what’s going on beyond the walls of this house and I think the others share my sentiment which is why we all drop into awkward silence.
Undeterred, Lottie chuckles, patting her silver-gray hair tucked into a bun before saying, “Don’t mind him. He gets confused sometimes. Probably thinks you’ve come about his brother in the war.”
Which war? Judging by the wrinkles lining his face and the way his eyes roam from face to face with little understanding of who we are, I would guess World War II.
Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t understand. I can’t imagine that flesh eating monsters are the reality I would want to face right before leaving this world. He’s seen enough evil already.
However, it does give Lottie’s dilemma new meaning.
This man didn’t just injure himself. He’s lost his mental faculties.
If what she’s said is true, there’s no one left to help her keep this place going and we need these resources because they’re going to be few and far between before we have time to plan.
“Who wants some fresh lemonade?” Lottie asks, breaking me from my reverie. Since I don’t know anything about the situation or who might be here, I follow when Lottie steps through the adjacent dining room with Shelby right behind her.
Passing a heavy oak table with eight chairs tucked away, I glance over at Shelby, whose small smile fills my chest with an unknown emotion before I look away.
Her shining blue eyes remain in my mind though as Shelby asks, “Can I help you with anything?”
“Gracious me, that would be wonderful,” Lottie says, smoothing a stray gray hair back into place.
The kitchen faces the garden, and I eye the sprouts in the ground with a kernel of hope. Those tiny green shoots are the beginning of something fresh and new.
In a way, they represent us, starting again but can they survive the spring showers? Will we?
Caught between the group still waiting in the living room, I move between them cautiously while Lottie pulls out a series of glasses in the cupboard to the right of the sink before producing a jug of what appears to be homemade lemonade.
Curious, I glance over her shoulder, surprised to find an old school icebox, similar to the one my grandmother had although never used. Prior to using refrigerators, families depended on these built in containers to keep food cool with the help of blocks of ice.
Where did she get the ice?
When Lottie notices my stare, she says, “Convenient, right? Too bad the ice is gonna run out soon, but I guess we’ll have to figure out something new when summer comes.”
With new eyes, I look around and see that this home and the people inside probably worked this land long before the convenience of time created mass production.
What does that mean for Lottie and Harry? With Harry’s injury and what I suspect is dementia fogging his brain, Lottie, no youngster herself, has her work cut out for her.
However, with the changes rapidly overtaking the world, people are going to need farms and the food produced by them.
My mind circles with the possibilities as Lottie finishes pouring the lemonade. When Shelby attempts to carry the overloaded tray, I eye her delicate wrists still healing before taking it from her hands.
Back in the parlor, where the remainder of our group stands awkwardly, Lottie waves to the dining room and says, “Please. My old bones don’t work like they used to. Bring those chairs in here and sit.”
Once we’ve managed to claim a chair and bring it into the parlor, I take my seat and glance around at the others.
My throat tightens at the tartness of the lemonade and it’s super fucking surreal to be drinking it in this woman’s parlor while she chatters on, knowing that death and destruction lingers beyond these walls.
Across the room, Lance and Nate sit shoulder to shoulder with their eyes cast to the floor.
Nora studies the two strangers with a furrow between her brows, Larry beside her.
Jason's fingers engulf the tiny glass in his hand, the lemonade long gone and he looks around for a place to set it before cradling it awkwardly in his hand once more.
When I turn to Shelby, she shifts on the tiny sofa where she’s sitting beside Lottie, hiding her dirty hands beneath her legs. It’s a lost cause though because much like the rest of us, her clothes are heavy with the dust we’ve accumulated on our trek.
Not only that but her face is ringed in dirt, making those vibrant blue eyes even brighter. As if sensing my stare, she looks up and I curl my lip, gratified when she returns the smile, a curious twinkle in her eyes.
“Now then,” Lottie says, smacking her thigh. “We’re so glad you’re here. Right Harry?”
Shelby turns back to Lottie leaving me desperate to know what was so funny while Harry glances around with his cloudy gaze.
“We need help, you see,” Lottie continues, pointing out the window at the grazing cows before tilting her head toward the back of the house. “We have chickens, cows, a garden. We’re not spry like you kids. We can’t keep this running, and it would be a shame to see it go.”
Silently agreeing, I rest my arms on my knees and ask, “What did you do before?”
“We had help,” she says with a shrug. “They left.”
“When those . . . ” Nate trails off with a sheepish smile.
“Flesh eating monsters came. Yep, that’s about right.” Turning back to me, Lottie raises a thin silvery brow and says, “No one’s coming with trucks full of food. We’re on our own. We need each other now.”
We do. I get it and this is a pretty sweet setup if fortifications are made. Maybe this is the right place to settle? For them . . .
“Are there any survivors nearby?” I ask, ignoring Shelby’s frown.