Chapter Twenty Nine
JASPER AND I RIDE HIS bike back to the house in silence, our surroundings anything but.
Cicadas are alive in the rustling trees, the distinct smell of cold fills my nose, and the high sun leaves violent streaks of orange on the dirt roads.
Bird songs are dulled by the roaring wind that sends the bike leaning left every few seconds.
I tighten my grip on Jasper’s backpack, my fingernails aching with the effort and the cold. Jasper pedals fast toward our destination, fueled by some emotion I can’t quite put a finger on.
As for me, my thoughts are jumbled like a basket of unmade laundry in my head. Socks, underwear, tops, jeans, all haphazardly thrown in a pile, crinkled, and a clusterfuck to sift through.
The socks: Chandler doesn’t want me.
The underwear: I’ve got no supplies. If I stay in Macoby, how will I eat? Drink? I have nothing left to trade, and I don’t have allies. Jasper, maybe.
The tops: Chief wants me to betray the place that gave me shelter for the past two years.
But was it ever home? All the nights I spent crammed into a tiny apartment with my grandma and Bunny.
When my back ached after another uncomfortable sleep because it wouldn’t have been right to make an old woman, or a young girl, sleep on a ratty couch.
And then, the countless times I overslept because of a restless night of discomfort, and then missed the breakfast bell—which meant I didn’t eat for another ten hours until dinner.
All those times I drove the boys to get supplies, only for us to come home with diddly squat.
Or with what we thought was a ton of food, only for it to be an insubstantial amount for each person, because it had to be divided equally between us.
Or rushed to the lackluster infirmary with wounds from collapsing structures.
Was it ever home, really?
In Macoby there are beautiful trees, homes, and a bed, all for me to experience. And I can have anything I want, as long as I find it. As long as I take it. This place isn’t home, but if I brought Grandma and Bunny here, would it be?
They would get to form relationships with good people, just like I have: Jasper, Chief, Bama, Sling, Clara .
. . Even Greeley, who buries her feelings beneath biting words.
I can see now that her anger is a defense mechanism, like sarcasm is mine.
The two of us bear similar shields. One day, maybe, we could find solace in each other.
Crazier things have happened.
By the time Jasper’s sprawling lot comes into view, the moon has crawled into the sky, casting pearly shadows on the driveway.
I inhale sharply through my nose, the crisp air refreshing.
Falling leaves crunch like Cheetos under my shoes.
Soon, my footsteps will be silent; there will be no more leaves.
Jasper holds the front door open for me.
“So,” I say, my stomach doing a somersault. “Shit hit the fan, didn’t it?”
Jasper spins around to face me. “How about a glass of wine?”
“I don’t have anything to trade—”
“It’s on the house,” he says, brown curls spilling over his brow. I wish I had a camera. Or, I wish I had a working camera and a charger and also electricity so I could take a picture of his smile. I settle for a mental screenshot to store away with the others. “Come with me.”
“You’re not one of those cult leaders who thinks he’s Jesus, are you?”
Now it’s his turn to ask, “First of all, you’re one to talk. Second of all, what?”
“I’m not in a cult,” I say.
Or maybe I was. Cult might not be the right word, but something similar.
I mean, the whole no-gun thing, for one.
Chandler’s argument for not allowing guns was convincing—because yes, the sound of a gunshot draws zombies, and yes, we’ll eventually run out of bullets—but why wouldn’t we find some damn silencers?
Why wouldn’t we learn how to make bullets?
There’s gotta be a book about it somewhere in the damn South.
Gas will spoil, but we still drive around.
Canned food will run out, but we still eat it.
Candles will burn away, but we still use them to see at night.
Why have I never questioned Chandler’s logic before?
Why have I been content with being defenseless?
Jasper clears his throat. “And why would I think I’m Jesus?”
I blink. “You know, turning water into wine and all that.”
“If I had that power, I’d turn water into moonshine. Much stronger. And has a much higher trade value around here.”
I nearly gag, remembering the pungent, corny taste of the stuff. “Only time I’ve had moonshine was when . . .” I trail off. It was my birthday, a year before Dad left, and he forgot.
You’ll be the first among your friends, he said. How cool they’ll think you are.
Jasper takes my hand, and I flinch. His skin is soft and cool, and his fingers weave between mine like a plait. For a second, I never want him to let my hand go.
“Come with me?” he asks.
“Okay,” I whisper, thankful for the distraction.
Jasper leads me down the hall and pushes open a door. A long stairwell leads downward, stone stairs disappearing into a black basement.
“How serial killer of you.” I bite my lip, stifling a smile.
“Yeah. This is where I stash the bodies.” I know he’s not serious, and in this moment I trust him completely, but for a second I wonder what if? What if there’s a flesh-eating zombie waiting for us in the dark? “Come on, Kota, I’m kidding.”
“I know, it’s just . . .” Milo. The theoretical zombie in the basement could have been him. It was him, to someone else. The zombie was once a living, breathing soul, once a person who was loved.
Jasper’s breath tickles my ear. “I’ve only killed one person.”
I swat his chest with our intertwined hands. “Jesus!”
“Yes?”
“Was that supposed to be comforting? If so, mission not accomplished.” My shoulders slump as I catch my breath. I ask, despite myself, “Who was it?”
“I’ll tell you when—”
“Let me guess: a conversation for another time.”
“No,” he answers. The trace of a smile plays on his lips. “I’ll tell you when we crack open a bottle of wine.”
And maybe I’m the serial killer—because although we’re talking about killing, when Jasper winks at me, my heart flutters with delight.
I decide not to push the feeling away. I let it expand in my chest.