Apocalypsis: Book 1 (Kahayatle) (7 page)

Socializing brought on friendships, and friends were too easily lost to death’s whims now.
 
It wasn’t worth it.
 
I had to conserve what little sanity I had by making the conscious decision not to drown in misery over the loss of people I’d never get back.

I puttered around the house, nervously checking the windows every five minutes, until I heard a noise at the front door.
 
I ran over and put my ear to the wood, listening for signs that it was Peter.

“Bryn?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” I said, getting ready to open the door.
 
But then I hesitated.
 
“Are you alone?”
 
I don’t know what I was expecting to hear him say, but it wasn’t this.

“Not exactly.”

My hand hesitated on the lock, not sure now if I should open it.
 
If there was a canner with him, would he tell me?
 
Or would they somehow force him to get me to open the door without him being able to warn me.
 
Or would he even want to warn me?
 
Maybe he was a canner himself, and all of this poor-me routine was just a ruse to get me to lower my guard.

I laughed at my paranoia.
 
As if my one remaining bag of noodles and my starving hundred-pound-body were anything to get excited about.
 
There were much easier meals to find around here.
 
Everyone from this neighborhood knew I wouldn’t go down without a fight.
 
But then again … Peter wasn’t from this area.

“Is it safe to open up?”

Peter huffed out a breath of frustrated air.
 
“Of course it is, you idiot.
 
And hurry up.
 
This guy is heavy.”

Guy?
 
I wished like hell I had a peephole.
 
Instead, I got my gun ready, flicking the safety off and bringing it level with the edge of the opening.
 
I unlocked the door and flung it open, holding the gun out in front of me with stiff arms.

“Don’t shoot,” said Peter in a tired voice, standing on the front stoop holding a dirty, gray-brown mass of tangled cotton that looked like a badly used mop head.

The mop head moved.

It squirmed a little.

And then it barked.
 

***

“Oh,
hell
no, you are not bringing that thing in here,” I said, as Peter brushed past me to move into the front hall.

“Be quiet and shut the door.
 
You’ll wake up the raiders.”

I shut the door as I yelled at him in a low tone.
 
“What the hell were you thinking, Peter?
 
We can’t take this dog with us!
 
He’ll bark his head off!”

“Exactly,” said Peter, pulling the backpack off his shoulders.
 
It wasn’t totally empty, and had at least one can in it.
 
I could hear it hit the floor as he lost his grip on the strap and let the bag go, reaching down to calm a shivering poodle.
 
“His collar says his name is Buster.”

“Yeah, I know his name.”
 
I’d heard his crazy owner calling to him many times.
 
I glanced down at the mutt and he looked up at me with his big brown eyes, barely visible behind matted, raggedy hair clumps.
 
I felt my heart start to soften, so I looked away.
 
We couldn’t afford to get all mushy over a stupid dog that was only going to get us killed.

“I couldn’t just leave him there.
 
He would have died.”

“Well, he’s managed to survive for months on his own.
 
I hate to think about how he’s done that.”
 
Visions of my old neighbor being eaten by his poodle made me feel like laughing and barfing at the same time.
 
It was funny in a very, very sick way.

“He wasn’t eating his master, if that’s what you mean.
 
The old man who lived there had spread about twenty huge bags of dog food out all over the place.”
 
Peter rubbed the dog under the chin.
 
“The little guy had managed to dig holes into them and eat the food little by little until most of it was gone.”
 
Peter started baby-talking then.
 
“He did all his poo-poo and pee-pee in a back bedroom … didn’t you, Buster?
 
Didn’t you big boy?”

“Was there any left?
 
Dog food, I mean?”
 
I wasn’t opposed to eating dog food, even though I knew it was made of pieces parts and probably a healthy dose of horse meat too.

“Not much.
 
I have it in the bag.”

I grabbed the backpack, looking inside.
 
There were several canned goods, a plastic bag of what felt like dog food, and a small book.
 
I pulled the book out and turned it over in my hands.
 
It was more a journal than anything, and it had a piece of paper sticking out of it.

“What’s this?”

“Open it and see,” said Peter, softly.
 
He gently pushed clumps of hair out of Buster’s eyes, which went right back to where they had been, despite his efforts.

I walked over to the kitchen, pulling the paper out as I went.
 
I reached into a drawer absently, taking the scissors from inside and walking back to hand them to Peter.
 
“Cut his stupid hair.”

The paper was actually an envelope.
 
I turned it over and saw that it had my name on it.

“What the hell?” I said to no one.
 
Why did that old guy have an envelope with my name on it in his house?
 
I looked at Peter, suspiciously.
 
“Did you do this?
 
Is this some kind of joke, so I’ll agree to keep the dog?”

Peter shook his head, still not meeting my eyes.
 
“No.
 
I found it on his kitchen counter, near the phone.
 
He had a stack of papers there, but this is the only thing that had your name on it.”

I turned it over, noticing that it wasn’t sealed.
 
The paper inside was crisp and white, the writing done with blue ink, in old-fashioned script, the careful and precise penmanship making it seem almost like a work of art.
 
His note took up the entire page.

Dear Bryn,
 
I wish I could open this letter by saying ‘I hope you are well,’ but it seems almost foolish to assume that this could be the case.
 
If you are reading this, it is most likely because I have met my end and you are alone in this world without your father to care for you.
 
I don’t know why God has seen fit to bring this disaster down upon the heads of our youth, but it is what it is and I can do nothing to stop it.
 
It is my sincerest wish, however, that I could do even a little something to make your new life better for you.
 
You and I never met or talked, but your loving father came to me before his death to ask that I watch over you and do what I could to help
 
you.
 
I have no children of my own, other than Buster, and my lovely wife died many years ago.
 
I know that when I go, I will worry very much about Buster, maybe not as much as your father worries for you, but enough that it causes me sleepless nights.
 
It is with this in mind that I leave for you this journal, filled with everything I could remember of my days in the army, serving in Europe during World War II.
 
It would be foolish for us to believe that you will not need to know battle tactics in your new world.
 
I know your father has prepared you as best he could, to fight and protect yourself.
 
We’ve talked many times about you, he and I, and it is clear, he loves you more than life itself.
 
In closing, I would ask that if my dear Buster is still alive, that you do what you can to care for him.
 
He is a sweet soul and is generous with his love.
 
And I think both you and he might end up needing each other.
 
One can never have too many friends nor too many tail wags in her life.
 
With kindest regards, your neighbor, George Winterstone.

I started crying halfway through the letter and had to turn away from Peter to read the rest.
 
I walked over to the counter and put the letter and journal down when I was finished reading, trying to get myself together.
 
But all I could think about was my dad and how he and this neighbor had worked together before they died to try and help me survive.
 
I was overcome with emotion, lost in a dark and deep sea of memories that made me feel like I might drown in despair.

And then I felt something cold and tickly on my ankle.
 
I looked down through my haze of tears and saw a gray mop on the floor with a pink tongue hanging out of it.
 
Buster leaned in and licked my ankle again, looking up at me when he was done with his brown eyes, now much easier to see without the clumps of hair hanging in them.

I didn’t think about it, I just did it - I scooped him up and held him to my chest, burying my face in his fur for a few seconds while I cried a few more tears.
 

I abruptly stopped when I realized how awful he smelled, jerking my head back and grimacing while gasping for fresh air.
 
My sadness had evaporated instantly to be replaced by disgust.
 

“Holy Jesus, what on earth do you smell like, Buster?”
 

Buster got excited about hearing his name and wiggled like mad, struggling to give me a lick on the face.
 

“Oh, God, no!
 
No kisses to the face, Buster.
 
Oh, please, help me, Peter … he stinks to high heaven!”

“I think it’s rotten snails,” offered Peter.
 
“Dogs like to roll in decomposing things.
 
He had access to his back porch.”

“Oh, gag,” I said, holding Buster away from me and putting him back on the ground.
 
He was
 
alternately dancing in circles and jumping up on my leg.

“I think he likes you,” said Peter, grinning stupidly.

“Stop smiling at me like that.
 
He can’t stay.”
 
I tried to sound all firm and angry, but it wasn’t working.
 
Buster was a complete idiot.
 
He would not quit spinning in circles.
 
“Stop spinning, you jerk.”

Peter laughed.
 
“You can’t call a dog a jerk.”

“Why not?
 
He’s acting like one.
 
Getting all smelly like that and tricking me into picking him up.”

Peter snapped his fingers to get Buster’s attention, successfully convincing him to come over for more grooming.
 
“How did he trick you?
 
He’s just a poor little dirty doggy, aren’t you Buster?
 
Aren’t you?
 
You need a bath.
 
Wanna go in the pool?”

Buster responded by increasing the speed of his tail-wagging by eighty wags a second.

“He tricked me with his eyes,” I accused.
 
“Look at them.
 
And that ankle licking thing.”

“He’s just a doggy woggy, aren’t you, Buster?
 
A doggy woggy loggy?”
 
Peter was baby talking
 
again and Buster was eating it up.
 
“Wanna go in the pooley wooley?”

“Stop, Peter, before I come over there and put you both out of your misery.”

Peter picked Buster and the scissors up.
 
“I’m going to go give him a good grooming.
 
Be back in an hour.”

“Don’t make any noise,” I grumbled.
 
Now I was going to have to figure out how the hell we were going to make it to safety with a barking spastic poodle as part of our group.

***

I had to admit.
 
Buster looked a hell of a lot better bald.
 
Or nearly so.
 

“Damn, Peter.
 
You cut so much off, he looks like a newborn mouse.
 
His skin is pink!”

Peter shrugged, obviously unconcerned.
 
“His hair was matted all the way to the roots.
 
I tried to comb it out, but it was hurting him too much.
 
I figured we’d start from scratch and try to keep him brushed out.”

I eyed him suspiciously.
 
“What comb did you use?”

“The one in your bathroom.”

“Dammit, Peter, you can’t use my comb on the dog!”

“Why not?” he asked me, his voice all full of innocence.

“I can’t believe I even have to explain this to you … because I use it on my hair, dummy.”

“Your hair isn’t any cleaner than his is.”

He had a point there.
 

“I could cut yours if you want,” he suggested.

I pointed my finger at him threateningly.
 
“You stay away from me with those things.
 
I like my braid and I’m pretty sure I’d be ugly bald.”

“Fine.
 
You should put a feather in it or some beads or something.”

I laughed and shook my head at him.
 
“You are so gay.”

Peter smiled.
 
“So.”

“Hand ‘em over, Rover.
 
I don’t trust you not to give me a mohawk while I sleep.”
 
I held out my hand out for the scissors, which he willingly turned over.

“I’m serious about the feather.
 
We’re going to be living off the land and learning how to do what the indians did.
 
You’ve got the right bone structure to do the whole beads and feather in the braids thing.”