Chapter Four
I OFFER PETER MY HAND as we enter the church, but he dismisses it with a scoff. He slings his arm over my shoulders instead, says something about it being his duty to keep me warm. Duty, not love.
We’ll never go back to the way we were two years ago, when he found me, Bunny, and Grandma in a dilapidated Walgreens, huddled behind the pharmacy counter.
When he smiled, offered his hand, and brought us back to the Split.
When he got me the driver job, when he first kissed me and told me he loved me. A strong, handsome man loved me.
Maybe he still does, but maybe it doesn’t matter. I need his protection, his influence, more than I need his love. If I have to give and receive affection on his terms, then so be it. I’ll comply with his version of love if it means keeping my family safe.
And . . . there’s a chance that, one day, he’ll look at me the way Dad did Mom. I have to believe that.
I jolt backward as water splashes my face, and I lick my lips. Salty. Droplets swim down my forehead, and despite my best efforts to contain myself, I wipe them away and suck the wet beads off my fingers.
I blink my eyes open. The wide, clear blue eyes of Mrs. Patty stare at me, mere inches from my face. “Pagan,” she hisses. “Repent!”
“Mrs. Patty, did you use your water rations to make holy water?” Peter shakes beside me, a big smile plastered on his face. Laughing.
Mrs. Patty steps forward, a sour, smoky scent wafting off her pudgy frame. She’s been using bark from cedar zomtrees as incense again.
“I’m saving your soul. You’ll thank me later.” Her eyes snap frantically around the church. “You all will.” She pushes through Peter and me, dipping plump fingers into the cup and setting her eyes on her next target: Fred.
Watch out, bud.
I turn to Peter. “She doesn’t think you need salvation, then?”
“More like the old crone knows what would happen if she came near me with that shit.”
“What, Peter?” I say. “What would you do to her?”
He leans toward me and whispers in my ear. “A transfer to the crematory team would be good for her, don’t you think? Burning the bodies of the ones she claims to have saved. Spreading their ashes.” He pulls back and smiles. “C’mon, let’s eat.”
Despite the grim images Peter’s words bring to mind, my mouth waters as we walk toward the front of the church. Large steaming pots and wicker baskets are spread atop the altar. Scabs of ceiling flake down onto a Gatorade tub of water next to the food. Peter pulls a piece out of my hair.
“Not dandruff,” I say. “Promise.”
Sconces filled with candles line the walls, illuminating the scavenged tables where Egals dine. 148 people, all crammed inside the church, dining together as one.
I look around the open space for Grandma and Bunny, but instead find Milo, his gray bangs damp and plastered to his forehead.
I say, “She got you, too?”
He nods, balancing a plate of food in each hand. “Called me the worst kind of sinner, taking two plates for myself. This one’s for Indy, though.” Milo leans toward Peter and elbows his side. Winks. “Told him not to lift a finger.”
Peter grunts and pushes past him toward the altar. Milo teeters, but manages not to drop the plates.
“Sorry,” I say to Milo, once Peter’s out of earshot. “Best not to joke about food when he’s hangry.” I peer down at his measly plate. Bread and beans. Again. “Today was a lot for him, I think.”
He steps toward me, leans in close. “Bigger day for Indy, though, huh?”
Ouch.
“Yeah, well . . .” I grit my teeth and step back, forcing myself to look into his eyes. “Rules are meant to be followed.” The words taste like mulch in my mouth.
Milo gives me a challenging stare, but I can’t give him the response he wants.
We both know Peter only follows the rules when it serves him, but neither of us can risk calling him out.
For one year, I lived outside these walls with Grandma, Bunny, and West. For one year, we hid, helpless, waiting for one of us to turn into a zombie. It was inevitable. I’m not going back.
I clear my throat. “Table’s clear behind you,” I tell Milo, hoping he’ll take the hint to move on from the touchy subject.
Smiling, he sets the plates down behind him, picks his slice of bread off a plate, and spins back around.
Milo says, “Your grandma outdid herself today. I’m glad they reassigned her.
” He holds the bread up and stares at it like the crust is shimmering with gold.
“I mean, just look at this slice. It’s a fluffy, fragrant, divine masterpiece.
It makes me feel like . . . like . . . like I’m in a real church.
” Milo looks around with wide eyes. “Wait a second!”
I breathe a sigh of relief and let out a laugh. He winks and bites off a hunk of bread, bits of crust getting stuck in his stubble.
“Oi!” Indy calls from across the room, always distinguished by his thick British accent. “Milo! Where’s my plate, lad?”
Milo shoves the rest of the bread in his mouth and grabs the plates. “Gotta run,” he tells me. “Come join us after you’ve made your plate.”
Oh, right. Food. Milo’s words remind me just how hungry I am, not that I can ever really forget. It’s always there, in the pit of my belly, clawing.
As I walk toward the altar, my stomach lets out a roaring growl.
A delicate hand squeezes my shoulder. Grandma says, “Pretty sure the entire church heard that monster inside your belly. Soon, you’ll have the Egals thinking a zombie’s roaming around. Don’t want that, now, do we? Go on, take my slice of bread.”
“Grandma,” I say, giving her a hug.
Her body’s getting slighter by the day. The smell of rose perfume clings to her skin, mingling with the flour and burns that tatter her blouse.
She’s had the perfume since Z Day. Tucked it into her fanny pack as we ran from our splintered home to find shelter.
And when Chandler proclaimed we could each bring one belonging into the Split, Grandma chose that damn perfume without hesitation.
“Tell you what,” Grandma says, her soft voice a sweet song in my ear. “If we ever figure out how to rebuild humanity, I’ll bake you a whole loaf myself.”
I pull back. Her brown eyes, so much like my own, soften and crinkle at the corners. “Think we might be waiting a while for that, Gran.”
“Hope, dear.” She places a palm on my cheek. “Have a little hope.”
Grandma snaps her hand back and wraps it around her wrist. Her arthritis, it’s flaring up again. And she’s already used up her quota of medication for the month.
“I’ll figure something out,” I say, although I’m not sure what I’m going to figure out. Can’t ask Chandler for a handout. Can’t go out on my own to scavenge. Can’t, can’t, can’t—
No. There is one thing I can do.
“Oof!” A breathy noise escapes my mouth as little arms wrap themselves around my waist, squeezing the air out of me. Bunny giggles and pokes my belly button.
“What’re you up to, kiddo?” I ask.
“I’m not a kid,” she says, and she’s right. She’s gone through more than any ten-year-old ever should, though many have.
Growing up, I read my sister stories filled with princesses locked inside castles to keep the monsters away. I never thought those stories would spring out of the pages and into our lives. But they did—and they didn’t bring ballgowns and tiaras.
“Your pigtails tell me otherwise,” I say, tugging on a blond curl.
She sticks her tongue out. “Kota, your stomach . . .” Bunny sticks her ear to my belly. “I think it’s trying to say something. I think it’s saying . . . huuuuuungry.”
I want to put Bunny in a jar like a firefly and keep her in my pocket. Instead, I place a finger under her chin, lift her gaze to mine, and ask, “Have you eaten yet?”
“Nope!” She takes my hand in hers and pulls me toward a large pot of beans.
“Girlfriend, are you trying to pull my arm out of its socket?” I ask in exasperation.
Grandma trails behind us and lets out an amused laugh.
We each load up our plates: one cup of baked beans, one gleaming hunk of bread.
“Can we sit with Peter?” Bunny’s honey-like voice breaks me out of my thoughts. The church buzzes with Egals eating and talking, and Bunny smiles at every table we pass.
“Of course we can.”
We find Peter with the boys. Milo smiles wide, his stubble seeming to have eaten more beans than his mouth.
Indy’s face is still blanched, but at least the blood’s washed off.
He hides his hand under the table. Sandwiched between Milo and Peter, Indy’s not wearing boots, but if he were, he’d be shaking in them.
“Hey, guys,” I say, setting my plate down. “Mind if we join?”
“We’re in the middle of something, Kota,” Peter says, his voice low and face closed off.
“Right.” I bite my tongue. You’re doing it for them. To get the extra rations. Be cool. “No problem.” I pick my plate up, and Peter turns back to the boys. I’m dismissed.
I point to the corner next to the stained window and turn to my little sister, saying, “We’ll sit over there, just the three of us. Okay, Bunny?”
She nods, her round cheeks rosy like cherry gumdrops.
We secure the best spot in the house: a table beneath the stained glass window.
The mosaic that survived it all. Red glass twists into a delicate rose, its long green stem curling around the arched window.
Filtered light streams through, highlighting the delicate blues and yellows that swirl and surround the flower.
Beautiful things do, in fact, still exist.
I spoon a heap of beans into my mouth. “What’d you do today, Bunny?”
“You’re not going to believe what happened,” she starts. “I pricked my finger when getting a vial of Joyce’s blood. We were low on O. Anyway, look!”
Working in the Sick Room is certainly not the childhood I imagined for my baby sister.
Bunny, a diabetic, giving shots to the ill.
The job’s supposed to give her prime access to insulin.
God forbid Bunny gets hyperglycemic when the workday’s over, when it’s 2:00 a.m., and we have to spring to the Sick Room to get her insulin because Chandler won’t allow us to keep extra doses in the house.
Bunny’s diabetes isn’t “dire enough” to break protocol.
According to Chandler, no situation is. Could be worse—at least shelf-stable insulin hit the shelves before the country went to shit. Otherwise . . .
I shudder.
Otherwise, Bunny would be dead.
“Earth to Kota,” Bunny says, wiggling her pointer finger in front of my face.
I peer at the tiny dot on her skin. “Should I kiss it to make it better?”
“No, I told you, I’m not a—”
I kiss it. It’s better.
“So . . .” I shift my attention to Grandma. Her hair falls in silver strands around her pointed chin. “Hands doing all right, Gran?”
Grandma presses her lips into a thin line.
Delicate wrinkles wrap around her mouth like a map.
Three years ago, her hair was long and thick, her face fresh, cheeks plump like mine and Bunny’s.
She hasn’t lost her spirit or strength, but the deep wrinkles on her face have been etched with the toll of the new world.
“I’m fine, dear. Nothing to talk about.” She sips her water like she used to sip a martini, swishing it around in her mouth before swallowing.
“Not talking about it isn’t going to make it go away,” I say.
When Gran turns her cheek, I kick myself for letting the words spill out.
Grandma sets down her fork and places her hands in her lap. “All finished, then? Shall we head home?” she asks.
I look at Bunny’s plate, speckless like it never had any food on it to begin with.
“You’re officially inducted into the Clean Plate Club,” I say, shoving the entirety of my bread portion into my mouth. “Good girl.”
“Grandma, I can’t believe you’re sitting there, watching her speak with her mouth full!”
Grandma giggles. For the next few minutes, it’s like we’re back at home, sitting at Grandma’s dining room table, enjoying supper. I’m even able to ignore the growing pit in my stomach, the one warning me that my favors from Peter are almost up.