Chapter Six
I DRIFT TOWARD THE SEA, tender waves caressing the shore with gentle kisses.
I’m soft, I’m weightless, I’m a feather.
Pastel pink and buttercream birds fly above, their wings soft and legs hurried.
There’s Mom and Grandma, Bunny and West. Dad, a raven, closely behind.
I flutter in beat with the family of birds, my wings working at double speed to keep up.
But I don’t mind. I relish the salt air that dampens my tongue, let the vanilla-colored clouds sweeten my skin. Tranquil, I fly above the sea.
Crack!
White clouds turn gray, then ooze into black. Neon lights flash as thunder rips through the air, threatening to deafen me with its boom.
The birds break formation, then scatter. East, west, north, and south. They leave me behind.
I’m falling. Five-hundred-pound weights are tied to my ankles, and they’re pulling me down, down, down. I hurl toward the ground, gravity berating me. Three more seconds, and I’ll go splat. Three more seconds, and I’m a bug on a windshield.
The ocean approaches like a brick.
Three more seconds, and—
“Aagh!” I tumble off the couch onto the dusty living room floor. Two small yellow tennis shoes step next to my face.
Bunny crouches and covers her mouth, giggles threatening to escape. “Kota, you rolled off the couch again.”
I rub at my eyes and yawn. “Sure did, didn’t I?”
Oof. And there’s my hip.
My head pulses as though I got maybe three hours of sleep, but the hazy sunlight streaming through the living room window tells me otherwise. I slept soundly through the night, and yet I still feel like shit. Wonder why.
I tuck Bunny’s hair behind her ears, and she immediately undoes it. “I can’t see your face like that.”
“Liar. You totally can,” she says, sticking her face all up in mine.
“Whoa. Morning breath. We ran out of toothpaste?”
“Yep. Grandma says it smells like a dragon.” She breathes fire into my face.
I plug my nose. “Grandma’s right. Why don’t you go rub your teeth with a towel, and we’ll head out to breakfast?” Bunny nods and hops off to the kitchen. “And don’t forget your tongue!”
Breakfast around here is at 7:00 a.m. sharp. Like all of our meals, if you miss a meal call, you’re shit out of luck. Your portions get thrown into the pool for the next meal.
That never happens. We’re all malnourished. Nobody misses meal times.
“Tongue scrubbed!” Bunny smiles. “Do you think they’ll have pancakes?”
She never stops asking for pancakes.
I throw my long hair into a ponytail and sigh. “One can always dream, Bun.”
“I’m so hungry,” Bunny says. Her hands start to shake. Her face pales. “I think I’m going to—”
She collapses.
Fuck.
Her breath should have signaled to me that her blood sugar was low. And we don’t have any more of the insulin Peter smuggled for us in the house.
I lunge toward my sister and shout, “Grandma! I’m running Bunny to the Sick Room!”
Though I try to keep the worry out of my voice for Grandma’s sake, it’s clear as day.
I heave my sister into my arms, and her unconscious body flops around as I bust ass out of the house and through the streets.
This is happening too often.
Three minutes later, the Sick Room is in sight—a small brick building with a wooden plus symbol nailed to the front. Two nurses attending to patients on rickety futons look up as I burst through the door. “Insulin! NOW!”
Mariana, a female nurse, runs to the cabinet along the wall and locates a vial. I set my sister down on an empty futon. Mariana hurries over to us and stabs my sister in the abdomen. She says, “She needs sugar.”
If only I could get her a Pepsi.
“Candies,” the other nurse says. Norman, I think his name is. Bunny’s other coworker. “We’ve got caramels in the cabinet, next to the suppositories.”
Mariana finds the caramels, wrenches open Bunny’s mouth, and shoves two in. After what feels like an eternity, Bunny’s eyes flutter open.
“These aren’t pancakes,” she says with a smile.
I place a palm on her cheek. “No, sweet girl. No pancakes today.”
Norman says, “Oat bran’s on the menu. Nothing to write home about, but exactly the healthy carbs you need.”
“Yuck,” Bunny says. “It’s always so watery.”
“She’ll need to rest through breakfast hour,” Mariana tells me. “Monitor her blood sugar. Do you mind running to the church to grab her portion? I’ll write you a doctor’s note.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll go now. See you soon, Bun?”
Bunny nods. “But don’t you dare skip breakfast. I know you’ll want to hurry back here, but you need to eat, too, Kotie.” She narrows her eyes. “I’ll do a breath check on you when you’re back—I swear I will!”
“Okay, little dragon. I’ll eat.” I push away from the futon. “I’ll be back soon. Promise.”
BY THE TIME I’VE SCARFED down my own breakfast—lest I fail the breath test—and brought Bunny’s hers, it’s eight o’clock. And I have a cramp. I’m going to be late for the download.
On Thursdays, Chandler gives us the details of our next supply run. The boys and I go on runs twice a week—not for safety, but because we can’t afford to use more gas than that. We also don’t have the space in the rectory to stock up, if that ever were to happen.
“Gotta go, Bun,” I say with one last forehead kiss. “I’ll be late for work.”
I push up from the futon and run from the Sick Room to the rectory.
I find the boys inside, hovering around Chandler’s desk.
Milo and Indy debate the superiority of the now-meaningless US and UK flags.
Milo swears the US flag gives off “better vibes,” but Indy won’t hear it.
Not when there’s a chance that his home country is still standing.
Fred stares off into space, scratching his butt.
Jesus. I get itches, too, but you don’t see me with my fingers wedged up my ass crack.
“Where are Peter and Chandler?” I ask. While I’m grateful they’re not here yet, it’s unusual for them to show up late.
“Maybe they’re together. Canoodling,” Fred says, sniffing his finger.
I send him a glare, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“The hell kind of remark is that, Fred? His girlfriend’s standing right here.” Indy nudges me with his elbow and leans in close. “I highly doubt they’re canoodling.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say.
Oh my god, if Fred scratch-and-sniffs one more time—
“Welcome, doughboys,” Chandler says, stepping into her office. Her hair is pulled into a tight, fiery bun, and her hands are tightly clasped behind her back. Same shit, different day. Until she winks at me, which makes me feel weird. Chandler doesn’t wink. “And of course, welcome to our driver.”
Not a personal greeting. A warning.
Chandler pulls a large piece of paper out of her back pocket and unfolds it. Sprawling green areas, faded patches of blue, and zigzagging lines cover the crinkled paper, with handwritten notes scratched in the corners. “I’ve prepared the details for your next mission.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Peter to go over the details?” Indy asks.
Where is he? If I had my way, he’d be on his knees, picking up the pills he lobbed at the door yesterday. But no, he’s probably sulking somewhere, pissed off he didn’t get laid.
“I’ve debriefed him already,” Chandler says. Her tone has a finality to quell any additional questions. She must see that we’re not satisfied because she adds, “He’s filling up the truck.”
“Where are we going?” Fred asks. The bozo steps forward onto his shoelace and tumbles over. He falls to the ground with a laugh, then brushes himself off. “Classic me. Classic Fred.”
Chandler pinches the space between her brows. “If you all could keep still for five seconds, I could have a chance to explain. Jesus Christ, you all are unbearable this morning.”
Silence.
Chandler spreads the map on her desk, which charts the route from one side of South Carolina to the other. She extends a slim finger, dragging it through inky roads and highways to a red circle inside Greenville. Greenville. Outside the safe zone.
“Tomorrow, you will leave for Costco.”
The warmth seeps from my face, and my buzzing bones go still.
Indy unconsciously clutches his bandaged hand before shifting his eyes to hers. “You’re . . . you’re sending us on a suicide mission?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Milo steps toward Chandler and peers down at the desk. “No disrespect, Chandler, but Costco is only fifteen minutes from downtown.” He drags a finger along the map. “And it’s right next to a Bass Pro Shop. There’ll be hordes of shamblers crawling around there.”
“Thank you, Milo, for pointing out the obvious.” Chandler pushes up from the desk and paces around the room. “We’re running out of options. You all will have to get used to this. Going inside the city. Facing the undead. Our people need the supplies.”
“But Chandler—” Fred starts.
She whips around. “But Chandler what?”
Fred’s face pales. I think he just shit his pants.
“Your mission is Costco,” she reiterates. “You take everything, everything, you can fit into the truck. Do you understand?”
Indy clears his throat. “Can . . . can we get guns?”
Chandler looks like she wants to snap Indy’s neck. “No guns. Never guns.” Her face pales as she squeezes her eyes shut. “I won’t risk awakening them. I won’t risk losing you.”
Ha! Risk losing us? Or the truck, the gas, the supplies?
“Listen,” Chandler says, twisting her face into a grimace that I think is meant to be a smile. “I wouldn’t send you all to die. I believe in you. You can pull this off. You will pull this off.”
A chill runs down my spine as Chandler peels her mouth into a toothy smile. She’s never smiled in the two years I’ve called her leader. She could’ve been toothless, for all I knew.
Milo leans over to me. “Does she need to be exorcized?” Chandler glares at Milo and snaps her mouth shut, dropping the act. “Oops, I think she heard me.”
Motioning toward the door, Chandler says, “Get out of here.” She folds up the map and shoves it into a desk drawer. “I have work to do.”
Fred stares at her, open-mouthed. Indy taps his shoulders twice, but he’s as frozen as a statue.
Exchanging a glance, Indy and Milo grab his shoulders and urge Fred toward the door, practically dragging him.
I linger behind, waiting until their footsteps fade and the rectory’s creaky front door slams shut.
“What do you want, Ariti?” Chandler asks, her eyes focused on the papers on her desk. Being addressed by my last name sends a jolt through me. I jump straight to the point. Or at least try to.
“I was wondering if—”
“Spit it out.”
“When we go to Costco—only if we find it—could I take one extra vial of insulin for my sister? There was an incident this morning, again, and I think her diabetes is—”
“No.”
“She needs it. Please.”
Chandler pushes up from her desk and comes to stand on my left. As she places a cold hand on my shoulder, my spine straightens, and a rock settles in my gut. “Hate to break it to you, Kota, but we all need something.”
“I just want to help her. I don’t know what else to do.”
“You can do your job.” I shiver as Chandler pulls her spindly hand away. “Start there.”
She walks back to her desk and shuffles her papers. “Now please leave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I leave without a backward glance.
She doesn’t know it, but Chandler’s no has inspired me. Challenged me.
One way or another, I’ll get my family what they need.