Chapter 30
“Anyone hungry?” Ryan asked, gesturing to a row of townhouses that were a glistening picture of suburbia.
Though the shrubbery was fat and tufted, and the small patches of grass were shriveled into dried spires, it was apparent the area was once well-kempt.
The townhouses were new constructions, their white-paneled siding hardly stained with the daily drivel of life.
The cars abandoned in the lot were no more than five years old. Models like Prius and BMW labeled the vehicles and were especially eco-friendly now that their engines never started.
“I am starving!” Tatum shouted, and Grace shushed her without forethought. Tatum narrowed her eyes at her, looking as though she might have something snarky to say.
Nick looked the homes over. The front doors nearly kissed, with small metal railings flanking two steps as though they posed a fall risk.
Veering off course in any manner ramped up the chances of danger. The Infected were challenging enough to deal with. Yet, so far, they had not learned how to use a gun. It was people Nick feared. Always people.
Still, the group had already started toward the townhouses. Their stomachs were nearing empty, and they were only halfway to their destination.
“We can poke around for a bit, but we need to stay together. Open every door with purpose and caution.” Nick’s words came out strong and clear, yet no one responded, and he was not sure they heard him.
As they walked across the threshold of the first townhouse, Nick focused his efforts to put the group’s safety at the forefront of his mind. The modest home smelled of dust, and the furniture was typical particle board. Modern and unremarkable. It all fell away to Nick’s memories.
Instead of his ragtag group of survivors stepping with care down the hall, a phantom of his younger self raced down the stairs and into the dining room.
Nick saw his father sitting at his throne at the dinner table. He was eating a meal and scrolling through the country’s headline news on a tablet. Stocks were falling, war was rising, and the economy was crumbling. The news made Nick’s father irritable.
Usually, Nick knew better than to approach him during these times.
However, Nick had just learned that it takes over a million years for the light from stars to reach Earth, and he was fascinated.
How could he look up at the sky and see something created millions of years ago? He had to tell someone about it.
Nick’s mother would have been his first option.
Even when she was juggling many tasks at one time, Nick’s mother stopped to listen to him ramble about his day at school, look at his childish drawings, or laugh at a joke he made up on the spot that made no sense.
She knew the importance of making Nick feel worthwhile.
On this day, though, Nick’s mother was working late, and his father had to suffice.
Nick recalled the way his seven-year-old self skipped into the dining area and tried to get his father’s attention.
After many attempts, his father looked up at him, his face drawn and dull.
The pang of excitement buzzing in his heart sank as he rattled off his newly discovered fact.
Nick’s father blinked at him, offered a bland flavor of interest, and chided Nick for not being enthusiastic about matters that affected him.
At seven years old, a boy has not yet learned about adults like Nick’s father. Painfully stubborn, the man had built a story in his head about who Nick would become before he was even born.
And so, despite his father’s disinterest, Nick barrelled on with his facts about space. Then the yelling began.
“Are you okay?” Kate’s voice broke through Nick’s recollections of his youth. The gentle, warm tones brought him back to life, heating his core and reestablishing his purpose. The dread in the pit of his stomach swam deeper without leaving entirely.
“Yeah,” Nick answered. “I’m okay.”
Though she did not believe him, Kate would pester him later. Now was not the time for a deep conversation.
The group was in the kitchen now scrounging for any items that might be fit for consumption.
Tatum tore through the pantry tossing snack foods into Phoenix’s pack while Ryan and Grace inspected canned goods.
Kate sifted through the drawers, occasionally picking up something to add to their supplies. A screwdriver. A can opener.
The counters, albeit covered with a layer of dust, looked immaculate. Nick’s mother hustled about the kitchen with a wash rag—another ghostly apparition borne from his past. If a speck of dirt reached the surfaces in the home, the yelling would begin.
Each townhouse the group entered was identical save for slight variations of furniture and the faces in the family portraits.
Even the memories that accosted Nick were repetitive retellings of an eggshell family living in an eggshell home.
On the outside, things were stable and sturdy.
Clean and shiny. But the inside was a sloppy mess, and the whole thing was one wrong move from cracking.
Nick reminded himself that his father was likely rotting somewhere, long passed-away and nothing more than a desecrated corpse.
The image brought him some respite, though he could not help but feel like that seven-year-old version of himself.
A refuge where his new family could flourish and rebuild excited him like the ability to view a creation aged more than a millenia ago.
His father would have wasted no time setting him straight.
Pipe dreams, Nick. Always shooting for the stars. Well, guess what? The stars are dying, Nick. Just like all the fairy tales in your head.
The group looting the townhouses before him felt like his responsibility.
Nick allowed his overbearing demeanor—a trait passed down from his father—to rule over him, especially in interactions with Kate.
It was a wonder she had fallen for him at all.
The need to survive and the constant perils that the world kept spring-trapped within its landscape hardened Nick.
It kept him alive. And it kept the others alive. Was it enough just to live?