Dark Inside (14 page)

They both made fists with their hands and lightly punched each other. It had become their mantra, their good-luck charm.

Billy and he took the lead, with Evans following at the rear. They were the three strongest and the least affected by hunger. At least that’s what they led the others to believe. In reality they were just better at pretending the grumbles in their guts didn’t bother them.

It wasn’t much of an army, but they’d managed to survive. They were tough enough. But they’d never gone this long without eating before. How much longer would their strength last?

They moved along the tree line, sticking closely to the woods in case they needed to run. Vigilance would get them only so far. Realistically, if they were spotted now, they wouldn’t all get away. They knew this—survival came at a price. Over
the past few weeks they’d all survived a Bagger attack. Or two. Or three. They knew the consequences. Not everyone got out alive. They’d seen loved ones die. Even worse, some had watched the people they cared about turn on them. But as long as they stuck together in a group, they were still human. As long as they were human they were still alive. Michael watched the house carefully for movement. A tiny flicker, parting of a curtain—anything he might have missed before. A bubble of icy liquid churned away in his stomach. He was getting so used to being afraid, he barely noticed anymore. Goose bumps on his skin were as common as breathing. It was smart to be scared; it was the one thing that was keeping them alive. “Caution” was the new secret word.

Wait.

Did something move in the window?

No. He was imagining things. The hunger was playing tricks on his mind.

But still … he couldn’t afford to be wrong.

He paused to listen. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Squirrels chattered away in the trees above them, and in the distance he could see a thin V in the sky as a flock of Canadian geese chased the sun. The ranch house remained silent in front of them, a sentinel abandoned, just waiting to protect hungry strays. The back door was within their vision, closed and probably locked. They might find a key in the mailbox or hidden under a mat; if not they would break a window.

The yard was unkempt; the grass was growing wild and didn’t look like it had recently been disturbed.

Everything appeared normal.

So why was his body temperature dropping at an alarming rate?

“I got a bad feeling about this,” he said.

“You say that every time.” Billy snorted and spat on a charcoaled evergreen.

“This is different.”

“There’s nothing here. You said so yourself. We’ve been watching the building for hours. I’m hungry, man. There’s food inside that there house. I can smell it. Maybe they’ll have canned ham. I could really go for some of that. Maybe some relish that hasn’t gone bad and some potata chips to go with it.”

Billy, deep into food fantasy, continued to discuss his dreams openly as he passed Michael and moved toward the ranch house.

“Hey!” Michael jogged a few steps to get back in the lead. Keeping his eye on the upstairs window, he led the group up to the backdoor. Nothing moved.

It was easy to exaggerate things when your body was fueled by adrenaline.

Michael and Billy climbed the porch steps while the others waited at the bottom. The mother held her boy in her arms, her fingers tangled in the child’s white-blond hair. Her legs were obviously unstable, and even from a distance Michael could see them shaking under the extra weight. Evans stood close to her side, watching her carefully in case she might stumble.

The porch was empty except for a few folding chairs leaning against the side of the house. Brass window chimes hung from the corner, unmoving and silent. Piles of dead and burned leaves had collected in the corners. Off to the side were an old-fashioned push lawn mower and a slightly rusted barbecue grill. Nothing looked disturbed or out of place. The chimes were covered in cobwebs. No recent footprints in the dust either.

The door was shut, and when Michael tried the handle, it didn’t budge. Locked. A good sign. There was always the chance that survivors might be inside, barricaded and waiting for help. Even better if they had weapons. Finding healthy people en masse would be proof enough that the Baggers hadn’t reached this far north and they could let their guard down, even if only for a little while. It would be nice to sleep without keeping both eyes open.

No key in the mailbox. He ran his fingers along the top edge of the door. Then, bending down, Michael stepped off the welcome mat and turned it over. Nothing but a bit of dirt and a few pebbles.

Billy joined him, turning over the flower pots in the window. Dirt spilled onto the wooden floorboards.

“No key,” Michael said.

“Let’s break a window, then,” Billy said. “No pain, no gain.”

“No noise.”

“Less is best.”

Billy took off his jacket and wrapped it around his arm. Leaning against the door, he pressed hard and quickly, shattering the pane. The sound of glass breaking and hitting the floor caused them all to inhale deeply.

They waited.

The wind shook the dead evergreen branches, and the brass wind chimes crashed together. The icy-cold sensation was back again, and the hair on Michael’s neck pulled away from his scalp.

Picking bits of glass from the frame, Billy cleared enough of a hole to reach his arm through and turn the lock. Metal scraped behind the wood, and the door creaked open a few inches.

“In,” Billy said. “We’ll be eating like royalty soon enough.”

“Quickly,” Michael said. “In and out. We’re too open here.”

“You’re doing that paranoid thing again. You’ve got to chills out, bro. There ain’t no Baggers here. We’re safe.”

They were never safe.

Michael knew this. But a lecture at this point wasn’t going to work when Billy’s mind was set solely on the purpose of fueling his belly.

The back door led into a small mudroom. Jackets for all seasons hung on wooden pegs, and shelves were filled with shoes and boots. One of the coats closest to the door was bright pink with a fake-fur hood. Mittens with strings hung on the peg beside it. On the floor was a school bag, unzipped, loose-leaf pages of children’s handwriting poking through the opening.

Michael immediately glanced back at Evans to try and gauge his reaction. The older man stared at the pink jacket, a stony expression on his face. It would be hardest on Evans; he would never fully know what happened to his family. And there would always be reminders around to guarantee he never stopped thinking about it.

Evans reached out and touched the jacket gently. Michael stopped himself from asking if he was all right. No one else noticed the gesture, and it was too private to bring to everyone’s attention. Michael found the light switch on the wall and flicked it a few times. Nothing happened, but he’d been expecting that. The last of the power went out weeks ago. He did it out of routine, and not because habits were hard to break but because it gave him hope. Maybe one day they’d have the luxury of pressing buttons again and getting everything they wanted. But right now there were more important issues at hand than dreaming—namely Billy, who’d pushed ahead of the group and entered the kitchen without double-checking for danger.

Michael chased after him and into one of the nicest kitchens he’d ever seen. It was enormous, bigger than the whole of the one-bedroom apartment he used to share with his father.

Billy was throwing open cupboards at an alarming speed. So far he’d found nothing but row upon row of dishes, coffee mugs, and Tupperware. The counters were filled with all sorts of fancy appliances. Toaster oven, espresso maker, blender, mixer—everything strategically placed, as if Martha Stewart did the decorating. A gigantic kitchen island had rows of copper pots hanging above it and a large silver fruit basket with moldy apples and pears. The rotten fruit was the only proof that someone had actually once used the kitchen.

“We should check out the rest of the house first,” Evans said. He’d approached Michael and was standing beside him, watching Billy search. One of the other group members opened the stainless-steel fridge, and the smell of sour milk and rotten vegetables wafted through the room. Michael covered his nose. It was enough to make his stomach stop grumbling.

Evans moved across the room to help the mother, still clinging tightly to her son, sit down at the table. Michael went over to the fridge, suppressing the urge to gag from the smell, and sifted through the shelves until he found a small can of fruit cocktail. He pulled a spoon from the drawer and brought it over to the mother.

“Here,” he said as he opened the top, sugar syrup dripping on his fingers. “See if he’ll eat this.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Jackpot!” Billy shouted from across the kitchen. Too loud. What the hell was he thinking? He knew better.

But Billy had found the pantry. All he could think about was the row upon row of groceries facing him. There was so
much there. It really was a bonanza. Dozens of cans of food: soups, corn, peas, chili, tuna, salmon, pears and other assorted fruits. There were even some tiny cans of ham, just the thing Billy was dreaming about. Bags of chips and pretzels, boxes of cereal, granola bars, all sorts of things that didn’t go bad—they would have enough food to last them a few weeks once they sorted through everything.

Billy tore open a package of granola bars and threw one at Michael. He fumbled the catch and picked it up from underneath a chair.

“I’m gonna go take a look around,” he said to no one in particular. “Don’t get too comfortable. We still don’t know if we’re alone.”

The mother looked slightly alarmed at the thought. She perked up in her chair, spilling fruit cocktail all over her child’s shirt.

“I’ll come with you,” Evans said. At least two of them still had their priorities straight. Michael understood that they were hungry and all that food clouded their judgments, but this was exactly the sort of thing the Baggers would expect. However, the group was spread out across the kitchen, many sitting on the floor, stuffing their mouths with anything they could grab. Going on about safety at this point would only make Michael appear whiny. That was one of the downfalls of being young.

Michael and Evans moved through the doors and into the living room. A leather couch, covered in a thin layer of dust, dominated the area. On the wall was a fifty-inch flat screen, complete with a bookcase filled with hundreds of movies, many of which were Disney cartoons. On the floor in front of the entertainment system was a doll, half undressed.

They found suitcases by the front door. Michael lifted one.
It was heavy. “Looks like someone left in a hurry,” he said.

“Let’s hope so,” Evans said. They still hadn’t checked out the upstairs.

Back in the kitchen they heard Billy whoop.

“That idiot’s gonna get us killed,” Evans said.

They walked up the stairs together and checked out all the rooms. There were five bedrooms and two bathrooms, all of which were empty, to Michael’s relief.

“Water’s still running here,” Evans said as he came out from one of the bathrooms. “There’s a barbecue out back with some working propane too. I can boil us up some heat. We’re looking at showers tonight as long as we’re quiet.”

“Can’t remember what clean feels like,” Michael replied. When was the last time he showered? He reached up and scratched at his scalp. His long hair was greasy and the ends were beginning to dread.

“I’m looking forward to it. After living with you for three weeks, I can honestly say you need it.”

“This coming from a guy who farts
and
snores.”

“You’ve got to stop using that hair gel, kid. It’s starting to rot your brain.”

They grinned at each other.

Back in the kitchen, the group was looking slightly bloated from stuffing their faces. Only the mother didn’t seem to have eaten, mostly because her son hadn’t been able to swallow the fruit cocktail.

“Come on,” Evans said to her. “There’s a room upstairs. Let’s get the boy rested for a little bit. I think it’s safe for us to spend the night. But only one. We need to move on by sunrise. The rest of you better not get too comfortable. I’ll be expecting us to work for our dinner. I want lookouts at both doors and even outside.”

Michael nodded. He couldn’t have said it better himself. He helped the mother to her feet. She refused his offer to take the boy but allowed him to lead her upstairs to one of the empty bedrooms.

They were safe. Miracles still did happen.

In the middle of downtown Calgary, his car finally gave out. There was a loud noise like a gunshot, and he instinctively ducked and hit the brakes at the same time. The steering wheel jerked in his hands as he ground to a halt. The engine sputtered, then stalled completely. The blacked-out traffic light swayed in the wind above his head. The only movement on an otherwise empty street.

Cursing, he pulled the keys from the ignition and flung them against the dashboard. What was left of the city seemed to be taking the destruction and death seriously and barricading themselves in their homes. How many people were still alive? How many of them weren’t insane? Or infected? Or whatever the hell this was? Several weeks later and Mason (and probably everyone else in the world) had no clue what was happening. Communication was still down, anyway. If anyone out there did know what was going on, they couldn’t share.

All he knew was that people were dead. Lots. If the televisions were still broadcasting they would call this an epic pandemic.

He was parked in the middle of the intersection. The traffic lights above his head stayed dark. The city was a graveyard of electric wires and appliances. He’d driven most of the night and hadn’t seen a single light, because most of the rural communities were blacked out too, with the exception of the occasional farmhouse that was probably using a generator. Mason wasn’t about to pop his head in the door to ask. The last thing he wanted or even deserved was company.

He would never feel anything again. Somehow he wasn’t the same Mason he’d once been. His mother died so he could live. As far as Mason was concerned, she’d left him with a curse.