Chapter Nine
I AWAKE IN A METAL chair. My hands are tied. Only now, they’re pulled together behind my back. I give them a hard yank. The effort’s in vain, but trying means not giving up. And I refuse to give up. I will not die of apathy. So I pull—hard.
Fuck.
The rough rope grinds against my wrists. Jagged fibers scrape my skin and mingle with my blood. I can smell it. The salt, the metal. I feel the pain.
I register my surroundings. Four concrete walls, covered in soot and oozing brown liquid. One flickering candle. One closed door. One metal chair that holds me captive.
One ass that hurts like hell.
I peer down at my lap. My jeans are covered in dirt, ripped at the knees and ankles. My shoelaces are tied together, bringing to mind the first summer after Z Day. Tennis shoes tied together and slung over inoperative traffic lights. Caution: zombies ahead.
I suck in a deep breath—my first mistake. A sharp pain stabs the spaces between my ribs. I’m a slaughtered pig growing cold on a metal table. Body cut open and filleted.
No.
I am Kota, and I am alive. My body is intact. I am fine.
I repeat this mantra another three times, holding my breath, before taking an inhale. This time, I let the air slowly climb from my belly button, through my sore ribs, up into my throat, and out my nose.
Control your breath, Mom would say, cigarette between her lips.
I breathe, my chest expanding with air, then gag. This place smells like rotting garbage. But there’s nothing in the room that would cause . . . Oh. I curl my head down to my shoulder and sniff. It’s me. I am the garbage.
I am the pig.
What if Jasper and Greeley cut me open and feed me to the zombies?
What if Bunny has another episode tonight, and I’m not there because I’m human meat chunks?
What if Grandma’s arthritis flares up and she drops a hot bread pan—and loses her job?
With no value to Egal, she has no worth.
She’ll be kicked out, and Bunny will have nobody.
Grandma’s tough, but she won’t survive outside the Split on her own. Nobody can.
Breathe. Focus.
Be the dam, Kota. Shut off your thoughts and be the dam.
But the dam didn’t hold. It broke and flooded the city.
Dakota, your mother has bleeding in her lungs.
What’s going to happen to her, Dad? Will she be okay?
No, sweetheart, he said, tucking my hair behind my ear. She won’t be okay.
She—she won’t? What can we do?
Hold her hand. Love her.
I do love her.
That’s enough, sweetheart. That’s all you need to do.
Then Mom died.
Dakota, Bunny, I’m going to Florida.
Can we come?
No, darling, you two are going to stay with your grandma.
What about West?
Don’t worry about him. Your brother will stay in his dorm at school.
Oh. Okay. You told him where you’re going, right?
No need to trouble him, Dad said, smiling and smoothing down my hair. Now, I ought to get going. Your grandmother will be home soon. Ask her to whip up some of that lemonade for you and Bunny, why don’t you? Go on, get inside. There should be a spare key under the mat here somewhere . . .
Dad, when are you coming back? You are coming back. Aren’t you?
Yes, sweetheart. I won’t be gone for long.
Dad never came back.
West, what are you doing home? Don’t you have exams?
The state closed down all public schools. Everyone at USC was sent home. Said the situation in California’s getting serious, that we should all hunker down.
Don’t listen to the news, Grandma said, chuckling. I’ve been on this earth for seventy-one years, and have not once listened to those fearmongers. We’ll all be fine.
We weren’t fine.
Sunday, June 25th, 2017: The bombs were dropped on the Jocassee Dam, and thousands more across the country.
The waterborne virus spread. Far enough from the city, our neighborhood stood, and only a foot of water flooded our house.
The next day, fights broke out. Neighbors became strangers.
For one year, Grandma, Bunny, and I hid at home while West went on supply runs for us.
It’s bad out there, he said, I don’t want you to see it. But if it ever comes down to it, I want you to be prepared.
West gave me his old balisong and, in the shadows of our home, taught me all his tricks. The problem? I never put them into practice. I never learned to hunt, to fend off zombie animals, to kill. My inability, my inaction, haunt me to this day.
The last day I saw my brother, he returned from a supply run with a backpack full of those little mini cereal boxes. It was like Christmas. Frosted Flakes, Corn Pops, Cheerios. We feasted, the four of us, sitting cross-legged on our living room floor.
There was a moaning outside, and West went to take care of it before the zombie attracted others.
We waited, anxiously, but West didn’t come back.
When Grandma and I finally went out front, he launched himself at Grandma and me.
Grandma saw the bite mark on West’s forearm, and she killed him.
No hesitation, no second thoughts. But me?
I stood there, knife in hand, shaking like a child. I failed him.
We barely survived the next week. I thought that we would die, trapped in that Walgreens. Until a kind man, Peter, saved us.
Peter.
The weight of it is all too much. Emotions build in my chest—loss, betrayal, despair—until they have no choice but to erupt.
I cry.
I cry big, fat, wet tears. Let them roll down my face and onto my pants and in the holes between the fabric, wetting my filthy skin. Let the tears choke me, drown me, leave me to puddle on the dirty floor.
Who’s going to save you now, Kota?
My shoulders shake and my stomach heaves as I cry and cry and—
The door groans, and Greeley steps through. “There she is. There’s our girl.”
She wears a big smile as she strides toward me. Each step she takes in those black combat boots echoes through the room, masking my pathetic whimpers. Her bob accentuates her sharp jaw. She licks her lips, cracks her knuckles.
Does she want to eat me? I’ve heard rumors of the Macs being cannibals, but I assumed they were baseless. There’s no way we’d share the Split with cannibals. Now I’m not so sure.
I writhe around as Greeley pushes up the black sleeves of her shirt, then kneels down before me, one knee in the pathetic puddle I’ve spilled on the floor.
“Miss me?” she says, her lips curling into a venomous smile.
She pulls a dagger out of her pocket and scrapes the tip on the metal chair I’m bound to.
The sound screeches in my ears. I squirm around and inadvertently tip myself over, toppling sideways onto the ground.
“Ouch. That’s gonna leave a bruise like an overripe peach. ”
Fuck.
“Gree, stop messing with her.”
Jasper emerges through the door, though I can’t see his face, only those scuffed work boots. I can only imagine the satisfied sneer on his lips, seeing me pathetically worm around on the floor. A second pair of boots follows closely behind. These boots are bigger, polished.
Please don’t be my executioner.
“Just having a little fun,” Greeley says, putting her face in mine and snapping her teeth. She hoists up my chair, and my vision swirls as I settle back into my upright position. “It gets so dull around here.”
Jasper, Greeley, and a massive man—at least six foot four—stand before me.
Every bone in my body rattles. My captors stare and stare.
Moments pass, then eons. Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
The words erupt from my mouth before I have a chance to register what I’m saying.
“Say something. One of you, please, just say something.”
“Happy Friday the 13th!” November 13th. I’ve been captured for less than twenty-four hours. That’s a start.
“Apologies for our friend here,” the tall man says, his voice so deep it vibrates under my feet.
His skin is dark like mahogany, his eyes the same color.
They crinkle at the sides, unlike his glistening bald head, which is the smoothest head I’ve ever seen.
I could slip and slide down it. “She gets excited when we have guests.”
I twist my neck around, glancing toward my tied hands. “Is that what I am? A guest?”
“More like our next meal,” Greeley says. Tall Man glares down at her. She bows her head, but I catch her rolling her eyes.
“That’s enough, Greeley,” he says. “Why don’t you go home? Get some rest.”
She crosses her arms, the dagger in her right hand pointed dangerously close to her chest. “Rest is for the weak.”
“Go home,” the man says, his words final.
She sighs, sheathes the dagger at her side, and offers an exaggerated bow. “Yes, Chief.” As a final gesture of asshole-ness, Greeley salutes me. “Girl,” she says. Her lips curl into a smirk. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“Kota,” I whisper. “If you all are going to kill me, at least call me by my name.”
“Kota,” she repeats. “See you on the other side.” Then she spins on her heel and slams the door shut behind her. Could she be any more cryptic?
Two big, scary men stare down at me.
I close my eyes and ready myself for execution.