Allison Hewitt Is Trapped (39 page)

And I felt myself retreating, preparing for the letdown that was surely coming. He would mention her any minute and that would be the beginning of our long and tortured friendship.

“How the hell did you manage to get here?” I asked.

“By truck, by car, anyway we could,” he replied, lowering the lemonade cup. He looked down at the cup, fidgeting. “I was sorry to read about your friend.”

“Yeah. He would’ve liked it here.” It was the only thing I could think of to say. I felt a lump building in my throat and quickly looked down at my feet. I didn’t want to talk about Julian.

“And Lydia?” I asked.

I hadn’t seen her yet, not hanging around with Ned and his kids or sulking in the background. Finn, oddly enough, was missing too. At the arena he had been like Collin’s redheaded shadow, always pacing somewhere in the background with his gun and his black temper. It was hard, after so many weeks, to expect anything but the worst. I could only imagine what Collin must be thinking of me, of what I said about her, about
him
.

“Good,” Collin said, searching my face. “She’s good … I mean, the last time I saw her, she was doing rather well. As well as one can be, I suppose, considering the times.”

“Good,” I said, trying and undoubtedly failing to mask my curiosity.

“And you?” he asked. “You’re—”

“Good.”

“Good!”

“It’s good. I mean, it’s
nice
to see you,” I said, shoving my hands into my back pockets. My cheeks prickled with heat and only grew steadily warmer as I mentally ticked off the number of times I insulted Lydia on the blog and the number of times I said something completely asinine about Collin. And Odysseus—oh Jesus, Odysseus … There are sinking feelings and then there are quicksand, clawing for your life, wishing you were dead sinking feelings. I suddenly had a very bad case of the latter.

“So wow, you’re here, that’s … I’m glad. I’m glad we’re all here, together,” I said, rambling.

“Me too.”

“Jesus, Collin! Are you going to tell me or just let me suffer?”

He grinned with almost childlike sweetness and I knew he had been waiting for me to ask, to let the curiosity get the better of me. It was nice to see him out of army fatigues, wearing civilian clothes, looking more like a professor, a teacher, an ordinary man and less like a soldier. At last he drew breath and began to speak, slowly.

“I want to say it’s complicated, but I don’t think it is,” he said, ruffling his hair with the heel of his palm. “She stayed behind in Rockford and Finn as well. It was their decision and I … I’m just glad they’re happy and safe.”

“You mean, they—Finn and Lydia—are together?
Together
together?”

I could feel that breakfast I didn’t eat spinning in my stomach.

“Yes, exactly.” He chuckled. “She was kind enough to let me know about the … Well, her change of heart. I should have seen it coming, really, but as it turned out I was a bit distracted,” he said, idly spinning his lemonade cup. His eyes, his smiling eyes, were glowing in the cool, muted sunshine.

“That’s … crazy. I mean that’s unbelievable, Collin. I’m so sorry,” I said, knowing that sympathy was my duty, my absolute first duty as a friend. I’d save the happy dance for later, in private.

“No you’re not,” he said, rightly. “And neither am I.”

“But she left you, for a younger man—I mean,
your nephew
.”

“Surely her actions are defendable when one considers mine,” he said quickly, laughing again. Then his cheeky smile faded to a frown. “Hm. Silly me. I thought you might be pleased.”

“Pleased?
Pleased
? I—you—fuck you!”

I could feel my heart, the damned thing, lifting right out of my chest, trying to float out of my throat and up to the clouds. If I could bottle that feeling … But I couldn’t, it was too much feeling to hold on to. Collin dropped his cup on the hard, frozen ground and rushed to hug me. We held each other and I searched, as I always do, for something important to say. Graciously, Collin saved me the embarrassment.

“Every day was just a version of the one before, a day of trying to forget you. I had to do something. I had to find you,” he said, and it’s that voice, that beautiful golden voice that came to me over the radio so long ago and guided me, like a ferryman made of light, to a new life. “Maybe it’s good I wasn’t with you,” he said, kissing my face. There were still fresh bandages there from my little Jeep mishap at the movie theater. “You very nearly gave me a heart attack with some of those stunts you pulled.”

“And you’re not mad?” I asked. “About what I wrote?”

“No, no of course not. A little annoyed maybe,” he said, laughing. “But never mad.”

*   *   *

There are, as always, disappointments. My mom is still missing, Ted flirted with an early death and a good man died to get me here. But there are joys too. There’s winter to look forward to, a season of survival, of hardship and teamwork. Teamwork attempted with a partner, a good partner. I think we’ll go looking for
Little House on the Prairie
soon, Collin and I, heading another expedition to restock the library. It should offer some much-needed perspective. We’re not that bad off. We’re never
that
bad off. And Dapper will get to romp in the snow. Evan and Mikey will get to build snowmen and maybe Collin can teach us to build igloos. Collin and I are hoping to build our own lodge before winter shows up. We probably won’t be able to build one fast enough but God knows, we’ll try.

And soon the first really dangerous frost will come and maybe that will slow down the undead. Maybe the gunfire at the walls will stop. Maybe when the snowflakes start to gather against the cold glass panes, and we need to boil water to stay alive; maybe then, when the windows are embroidered with icy lace; maybe then we’ll know a moment’s peace. Spring will follow after that, and maybe my mother will make it here, bringing with her the smile I know so well, the face that isn’t my face, the love that is definitely my love. Maybe then a stillness will fall and each of us will look up at the sky and say: it’s not so bad, the undead are coming and we might not get out, but for once that’s really not so bad.

And maybe I lied. Maybe this
is
Utopia in a way—a tangled, difficult way.

A paradise of infinite possibility.

COMMENTS

Isaac says:

January 2, 2010 at 1:55 pm

Checking in to say we’re safe and sound, just rough around the edges. Canada is beautiful and stark this time of year. I won’t hope for anymore updates from you guys. It’s been months since your last post. I’m going to just keep believing you’re doing well and making us proud in Liberty Village.

steveinchicago says:

January 16, 2010 at 3:31 pm

still going. made it christmas and beyond. we’re thankful for every day we get and thankful that you made it to where you were going.

Norway says:

February 2, 2010 at 12:30 pm

Oslo gone, Drammen gone, undead coming north. It’s alright, though, we’re ready for them. I thought I had read this thing for the last time and said goodbye forever. I keep checking back. Always. Just in case. I’ll probably keep on checking, every few days maybe, staying optimistic until the lights finally go out.

The Witt-Burroughs Press

University of Independence
1640 Johnson Avenue NW
Independence, NY 12404

September 10, 2108

The New University of Northern Colorado

10 South Sherman Street

Liberty Village, CO 80701

Dear Professor Stockton:

Thank you for your continued interest in our press. We owe our longstanding success to devoted individuals such as yourself.

It is with deep regret that I must deny your proposal to have Ms. Hewitt’s story included in our forthcoming collection. While I appreciate your interest in the project and admire your dedication to scholarship, I cannot in good faith include this woman in a project designed to laud what is best and most noble about our species. I am, quite frankly, perplexed as to how you ever imagined that such a vulgar, bloodthirsty recount could merit standing among the likes of Shana Lane and Simon Forrest, artists of the highest caliber both morally and spiritually. Dr. Marion Moore will feature prominently in this collection. You will of course recognize Dr. Moore as the brilliant scientific mind responsible for the Z-12 compound, the odorless, colorless chemical that proved harmless to the living and extremely lethal against The Infected. Her work could almost single-handedly be praised as the invention that made widespread containment possible. Despite what her few detractors might say, it was only through Dr. Moore’s painstaking research that we were allowed to pinpoint the exact location of the West Virginia facility where the killer virus—for whatever reason—was developed, engineered and ultimately unleashed.

Therefore, Mr. Stockton, I must be candid and say that I am personally offended by your suggestion that Allison Hewitt belongs in our collection. I find her fluid, unidentifiable morality as repugnant and unconscionable as her confessed actions. Murder? Theft? This is the face of the faceless masses, you say? Someone like Dr. Moore saved us from further tragedy. What, exactly, is Ms. Hewitt’s great contribution? We here at the Witt-Burroughs Press strive to promote change, to demonstrate that even when faced with the greatest possible adversity, humanity strove forward bravely and righteously, not wallowing in savagery and demeaning the very characteristics that separate us from The Infected. We will not, nor would we ever, include this woman in a work meant to inspire its readers.

We wish you success in all your future endeavors, Professor, and might I also say that I hope you lift your aim a little higher in the pursuit of worthwhile scholarship.

You will of course be receiving a copy of the published collection in the mail—a gift from me and, I hope, an inspiration.

Acknowledgments

My humble gratitude goes out to the online readers who made
Allison Hewitt Is Trapped
come alive. Without your support, creativity, and patience, none of this would have been possible. I’m deeply indebted to those of you who contributed your time and energy to the comments section. Thanks also to Wordpress.

Specific thanks to Luis Wu, Isaac, Mel, D.J., bruce (Xunas), CptCrckpot, Brooklyn Girl, Rev. Brown, Bob in Rhode Island, S.W.A.T SGT. jason jeffery, amanda, Carlene, Logan, Matthew H, Andrew N, Elizabeth, Dave in the Midwest, j. witt, steveinchicago, and Norway. I sincerely hope I haven’t misrepresented your individual struggles for survival during the Outbreak.

Also deserving of my gratitude are Mom, Pops, Tristan, Nick, Julie, Trevor, and the whole Johnson gang for their support and love. Ari Hurwitz and Valerie Neverman must be acknowledged for encouraging me to write and keep up with the blog; they are true fans in every sense of the word. I’m indebted to Andrea, pen pal extraordinaire, for kicking my ass when I had writer’s block. Thanks to the bookstore gang (especially Pete) for putting up with me. I want to also acknowledge Monique Patterson for her insightful suggestions, eagle eyes, and ideas.

Last but absolutely not least, Kate McKean’s name just has to appear in this book because she is my hero. Her hard work and belief made a jumbled experiment into something coherent and whole.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at Madeleine Roux’s next novel,

SADIE WALKER IS STRANDED

This early in the morning—four o’clock to be exact—Seattle wears an eerie cast of rising purple, like an embarrassed flush, and it’s easy to see why. In the chaos, big cities fared the worst. So many people, so many things to destroy and burn—it was unavoidable that the aftermath here would be bleakest. From here, miles away from the waterfront, you can still see the
Golden Princess
cruise liner in the harbor, half sunk, like a miniature city descending gradually to its demise, a white-gold Atlantis. The rumor at the time was that everyone on board the cruise had perished, and not only that, but someone on board was the carrier, the undead transmitter that spread The Outbreak to Seattle.

As I trooped down Boren, the city came slowly to life. Lanterns behind windows sent up low, orange signal fires, and men and women in Wellingtons and fingerless gloves emerged from their homes to tend community gardens.

Looming over the vegetable gardens, hooked to street lamps and windows, are painted wooden signs and graffiti.
THEY’RE NOT YOUR FAMILY IF THEY’RE INFECTED
, read one.
DO THE RIGHT THING: ALERT THE AUTHORITIES,
or another,
OBSERVE THE CURFEW.

A street pamphlet careened up the street toward me, grabbing at my ankle. I paused and bent to retrieve it. The flyer, as usual, was garish—bright green paper, bold black font like a flyer for a topless bar. Impossible to miss. I read as I walked, perusing the latest news. Most citizens relied on the street pamphlets to deliver their news, and the presses that provided them took an immense amount of pride in their work.

Of course there was always at least one article about the population freaks. They preferred the term Repops or Repopulationists, a kind of religious or social group (some said cult) that feel a divine calling to repopulate the city and—I suppose in their warped minds—the world. The pamphlet was nice enough to refer to them as Repops, but everyone I knew just called them Rabbits, because all they seemed to want to do was shut themselves up in some hidey-hole and screw, screw, screw.

I was still perusing the pamphlet when I reached Pike Place. Not even five in the morning and already the line extended to 1
st
Avenue. I sidled up close to the stranger in front of me. We might have been a horde of dock workers and clock makers and shoe shiners, a bleak Dickensian postcard of hungry people just trying to eke out a living. But it wasn’t 1855. It was 2010 and we weren’t recovering from an outbreak of cholera, but from The Outbreak itself.