Jacob's Odyssey (The Berne Project Book 1) (17 page)

The room itself was nothing short of austere. The walls were a lifeless beige and they were perfectly blank. No molding or pictures or any other kind of adornment. The floor was cement and there were no closets in the room either. There was a single light fixture in the middle of the ceiling. A two-bulb fixture. And that was it. A bland rectangular room, probably a storage room.

Sarah used the pillow as a buffer between her knees and the gray cement floor. She was on her knees, sitting on the back of her heels, her back straight. She had an elegant posture that seemed to come to her naturally. She turned on an electric hot plate sitting on the floor next to the shelving. She grabbed a pan from a shelf and put it on the burner. Then she turned toward me and reached her hand out for the food. It wasn't a demanding gesture. It was more like reaching for something at the dinner table that would prompt a family member to hand you whatever it was you needed. There was nothing that needed to be said.

I handed her the food from the backpack and she thanked me with a simple nod.

This was the first time I'd actually seen her clearly in the light. And I couldn't get over how remarkably white her skin was. A sharp contrast to her black hair and dark eyes. Sarah had hooded eyes that made her eyes look narrow and sleepy. But maybe she was just tired. Her eyes were moist and shiny, and her irises were dark enough that you could barely distinguish them from her black pupils. She had long sapling arms, slender and supple.

She put the food onto the shelves except for two cans of chicken noodle soup that she dumped into the pot. She took the carton of almond milk and filled three glasses. Then she motioned for Raj and Becky to come get theirs.

"Would you like some milk, Jake?" she asked me.

I declined. Mostly I was absorbed in a daydream about the couch in the other room.

Becky frowned at her glass of almond milk as if she'd found a bug crawling in it. Her mother grabbed the jar of peanut butter and a spoon and handed them to her daughter. "Don't overdo it," she warned.

Becky's eyes grew wide. She headed back to her queen-sized mattress with her new found treasure. Becky and her mother were obviously sharing the larger mattress. It was one of the first things I noticed when I entered the room.

Raj slowly sipped his almond milk, savoring each sip as if it were a glass of fine wine.

I decided now was as good a time as any to ask about my sleeping accommodations. Sarah was stirring the soup with a wooden ladle. She stopped for a moment and took a sip from her glass of almond milk.

"If it's all right with you, I thought I'd settle out on the couch in the family room." Then I added, "I'm pretty tired. It's been a long night."

I waited for her to respond.

She turned and studied me with painfully serious eyes. A small curvy line, like a child's drawing of a single ocean wave, appeared in the center of her forehead, a worry line. She looked puzzled. She must not have thought about what they'd have to do with me after I'd brought them food. Maybe she thought I'd just leave. But I knew that wasn't it. They would need me to bring them more food or to find them a house that was well stocked.

She opened her mouth to say something but held back. She thought about whatever it was she was thinking about for a few more seconds, then said, "Um. Sure. Okay. You better take the flashlight. You'll need it." She put her glass down and stood up and took a blanket off the top shelf and handed it to me. "The pillows on the couch are soft. They should do just fine. I think you'll be comfortable."

"Thanks," I said. I stood there for a moment waiting for something else, though I wasn't sure what it was.

The wavy worry line was still firmly etched into her forehead. Raj, still sipping his milk, nodded and smiled as I finally turned to leave. Becky was focused on a spoonful of peanut butter and ignored my exit.

I removed the towel from the floor and set it back on top of the dresser and then I grabbed the flashlight. After I closed the door, I turned the flashlight on. To my left was a hallway. Straight ahead at the end of the hallway was a bathroom with its door open. I assumed there would be a bedroom or two on either side of the bathroom. But I wasn't going to explore them tonight. Sweeping the flashlight beam to my right, I could see the couch and coffee table. Across from them was a large entertainment center. There were a few other pieces of furniture scattered around the room.

I went upstairs and repacked my things in case I needed to leave in a hurry. If the infected came, I'd rip off a window covering and exit out one of the windows that led to the backyard. I'd try to talk them into coming with me if I could. But I knew they would stay in the storage room no matter what. They'd slide the dresser in front of the door and hope for the best. It would be suicide, but they didn't know that. If the infected ever discovered they were in the storage room, they'd never give up trying to get in.

Back downstairs, I laid the flashlight on the coffee table with its beam focused on the couch. I set the backpack down on the floor. I'd left the blanket on the coffee table earlier. I didn't really think I'd need it.

I found the couch pillows every bit as soft as Sarah said they would be. I was lying on my back. The leather couch was comfy but not overly soft. After a few moments, I turned the flashlight off. The only light in the room came from the crack at the bottom of the storage room door. After a few minutes, that light went out too, probably from the towel being stuffed into the crack. Then the room was pitch black, as dark as I could ever remember a room being. The darkness was incredibly deep. It was as if the darkness went on forever and there was nothing else. I blinked my eyes a couple times but the darkness remained. Darkness was all there was and I was deeply immersed in it. Drifting. Alone, yet peaceful.

And there was an essence or quality to the darkness that was hard to define, a kind of purity. There was nothing to see because there was nothing there. I sensed nothing, felt nothing. The world as I had known it had disappeared and I found that comforting. I was strangely drawn to the idea of nothingness, the ultimate sanctuary, devoid of pain and suffering—though I knew it wouldn't last and I knew it wasn't real. I had needed a reprieve even if it were only for a few minutes, and the darkness gave me that. It ended abruptly when I heard the soft click of the knob lock being pushed in.  

Locking the door was simply their routine, and it made perfect sense. They'd be safer and sleep sounder with the door locked. Still, I felt shut out, echoes of my childhood. But it didn't have anything to do with locking the door. Locking the door was symbolic more than anything. It was the look Sarah had given me after I'd asked her if I could settle down on the couch. Faces rarely tell lies and Sarah's face couldn't hide the truth. She didn't trust me, and it was clear she didn't feel comfortable having me stay in her home. I thought I'd earned a little cachet by bringing them food, but that didn't appear to be the case.

For a moment, I thought about leaving by the back door and going back to the house where I'd found the food. I could spend the night there and leave in the morning and make it to the underpass before noon. But I couldn't leave them even if I didn't feel welcome in their home. I'd set something in motion by coming here, and I was locked into the outcome. If I didn't finish what I'd started, I'd regret it, and I didn't have room for any more regrets. I had no choice but to tough it out, no matter how they felt about me. I would find them enough food to last them a month, maybe longer, or I'd find an abandoned home with lots of food storage. Once I did that, I'd be done with them.

I was thoroughly spent. I rolled onto my side and let my body ease into the soft leather cushions, then buried my face in the pillow. I was beyond exhausted, but my mind wouldn't leave me alone. Too many unresolved issues. I felt the need to descend into the inner darkness of sleep, but my mind would have none of it. An image of the old woman with her blackened leathery face danced before my mind's eye. And I couldn't help but examine the twisted irony of my ever-conflicted inner self. I hadn't wanted to shoot the old woman, yet when I did, I felt little remorse.

I ruminated about it as more images flashed before me—the teen boy I shot in the head, the infected man in the striped business suit I'd hit with the car, the Swimmer lurking in the shadows—a collage of the infected I'd encountered and maimed in some way.

I couldn't stop thinking about the old woman and the teen I'd shot and couldn't understand why I felt no remorse or guilt. I hadn't wanted to shoot the old woman because I saw her, to some degree, as still being human. No question, her being female added to my hesitation. My hesitation in shooting her was perfectly understandable, even logical. But feeling no remorse after the fact didn't sit right with me. I kept telling myself I should have felt some remorse because that's what human beings do. But I didn't feel a thing. I just felt numb.

I knew I'd shot them because I didn't want to be infected or eaten. I wanted to survive. And then it dawned on me that I'd been undergoing a subtle shift in my mind. The idea that they weren't human had finally taken a foothold. I'd been slow to come around to the notion because of Alex. I'd even gone as far as to ascribe human characteristics to them. And I'd had an almost desperate need to see them as still being human, but they weren't. I'd been conflicted about the infected, but I never should have been. If I wanted to survive, and I did, I had to stop thinking of them as human and start seeing them for what they were. They were the infected and they were dangerous.

I shot them because I wanted to live. It was as simple as that. And I acknowledged to myself that I hadn't done anything wrong. There was no need for remorse. I'd acted in self-defense. I did what I had to do.

My mind drifted to Alex. I missed my brother's happy-go-lucky demeanor and his laughter. Alex had a way of dissolving my overly serious nature. In my mind I pictured my brother fly fishing at the stream by the cabin. I saw his smiling face with the deep dimples cut into his cheeks. Alex never seemed to be bothered by much of anything while I worried incessantly about everything. Alex always had a way of calming me down. And that's what I needed more than anything now. My mind grew heavier as the moments passed, but I kept his image alive for as long as I could. And then slowly but inexorably, Alex and I merged into the soothing darkness.

When my eyes fluttered open, I felt disoriented. It was the light. The light and the blanket. I couldn't remember putting the blanket on myself during the night and that confused me. And I'd expected the room to be as pitch black as when I'd gone to sleep, but it wasn't. I turned over onto my back to see what was up. The room's overhead light fixture was on along with a standing lamp next to the couch. Becky Josephson was sitting on the edge of the coffee table watching me.

"Are you awake?" she asked, whispering softly in a conspiratorial voice. She looked at me brightly, much more alert than she'd been last night. Food will do that for you. Food and sleep.

"I guess so," I told her.

"You really slept a long time," she said. "Did you know it's after eleven o'clock?"

"No," I told her. "I didn't know." I was still trying to get my bearings. The air conditioner droned monotonously. I squinted as my eyes began to adjust to the light. She took notice.

"We turn the lights on during the day. My mom says it's okay to have them on during the day. And it's okay to talk quietly as long as the air conditioning is on." Then she added, "And even if it goes off, we can whisper in the storage room as long as the door's closed." And she whispered when she said it.

Becky wore khaki shorts and a white blouse with long sleeves. I guessed her to be around the same age as my fifth graders. Her short-cropped hair would have made her look like a young cancer patient if it hadn't been for her rosy complexion and lively energy. She leaned forward and glanced momentarily toward the open door to the storage room, apparently to make sure we were alone. Then she looked at me, eyes wide with intrigue.

"Are you a burglar?" she asked, spacing her words, her quiet voice filled with restrained excitement. She scratched her left arm near her shoulder and looked at me expectantly.

"No," I said softly. "I'm afraid not. I teach fifth graders at Beacon Heights Elementary."

She looked surprised, even disappointed. "But you broke into our home," she told me, as if that must have made it true.

"Yes, I did. That's true. But that's not what I do for a living. I had to get into your house so I could get you and your mom some food."

"Oh," she said, looking a bit crestfallen.

After a few moments, as if she suddenly remembered, she said, "Oh, yeah. Thank you for the food."

"That's okay," I said.

"Is your real name Jake? Or is it Jacob? I know someone named Jacob."

"It's Jacob, but I like Jake."

"My real name's Rebecca," she said, a sour look on her face. "But I like Becky better."

"Well, how about you call me Jake, and I'll call you Becky."

"Okay," she said. Then she suddenly brightened up. "I'm going to be in the fifth grade this year. But I'm not going to Beacon Heights."

I didn't have the heart to tell her there would be no fifth grade this year. Not for either of us. "How old are you?" I asked.

"I'm ten. I had my birthday in June."

"That's cool," I told her. "Ten is a great age. I'll bet you're really smart."

Becky's face lit up. I'd seen the same effect many times before. I'd often tell my fifth graders how smart they were. Giving them compliments and positive reinforcement could work miracles. Most children soaked it up, but there were always a few who couldn't. Children who came from abusive families often had difficulty accepting positive feedback.

Then I changed the subject. "Becky, were you the one who put the blanket on me?"

"No. That was probably my mom," she said. "Today's my mom's shower day. So she was up early. She probably put the blanket on you when she came out for her shower. My mom's like that."

"Oh, okay." I felt surprised her mother would have done that. "So you have shower days?"

"Uh huh. We take turns. Tomorrow's my shower day. I'll have to get up early though." Becky sighed and rolled her eyes in exasperation. "We take showers at six o'clock when the sprinklers come on. But first we flush the toilets, upstairs and down. Tomorrow's my shower day, next day will be Raj's turn. Then it'll be laundry day after that. My mom does the laundry in the sink. Yesterday was laundry day."

Taking showers when the sprinklers came on was an inspired idea. The infected would never notice the difference between a shower coming on and the sprinkler system coming on. The sounds would intertwine perfectly and be part of the normal ambient sounds. I made a mental note to keep it in mind. I couldn't believe how good a shower suddenly sounded.

I sat up on the couch and stretched and yawned silently. Becky seemed to get a kick out of that. She smiled and her cheeks blossomed. I was surprised how comfortable she was with a stranger, especially a possible burglar.

Becky pointed at my cheek. "What happened there?" she asked. "Did you cut your face?"

The cut on my face hadn't healed as well as I'd hoped. I'd been overly optimistic. "Yes," I told her. "I cut my face. A small piece of glass bit me on the cheek."

"No, it didn't," she laughed.

Becky and I were hitting it off quite well. My dark mood from the previous night had all but disappeared. The morning light often washed away my dark musings. Becky's friendliness had helped too. Not all kids took an immediate liking to me. With some kids, it took time to build up trust. Becky didn't seem to have any trust issues where I was concerned. I had to admit I was surprised. And I couldn't help but wonder why her mother would allow her to come out here and talk to me, which must have been a cue for Sarah to appear, or maybe she'd heard Becky laugh, because she suddenly appeared in the doorway staring at us. She gave Becky an exasperated look and came right over. "Rebecca," she whispered sternly. "You told me you were going to go play in your room."

"Um, I was mom. But I saw that Jake was waking up."

"I told you not to bother our guest. Please go play in your room," she told her. "Quietly," she added.

Becky obeyed her mother and trudged quietly down the hallway in the direction of the bathroom. Right before she got to the bathroom, she turned right and extended her arms to push open a partially opened door I couldn't see.

Sarah looked at me with an awkward, forced smile. Her arms were crossed again. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

"No, not yet," I told her. "I guess I'm still waking up."

"We should probably talk," she said.

I nodded and she sat down on the other end of the couch. She sat on the cushion and crossed her legs, sitting comfortably erect, facing me, hands on her knees.

Sarah had changed her clothes and looked remarkably refreshed. She wore stone white shorts and a faded tie-dye t-shirt with a mix of faded raspberry and blueberry clouds against a sky-blue background. She wore no makeup. In the light, her eyes had become the rich dark brown of an acorn. They were big and bright with a shine to them. I was surprised just how big they were. The narrowness from the previous night was gone and she looked like a different person.

"I have to apologize," she began. "I never thanked you for bringing us food last night. It was inconsiderate of me. I think I was a little tired last night. But I can't really use that as an excuse." Sarah's eyebrows were huddled together in concentration. She looked contrite and ill at ease at the same time.

"It's understandable," I said, though I wasn't sure why I said it.

"So, I want to thank you for bringing us the food."

We were both speaking softly in low tones. The hum of the air conditioner muted our conversation to the outside world.

"You're welcome," I said.

But even after the apology, her face remained tight and serious. I could empathize. Apologies often made me feel uncomfortable whichever way they went.

"I'm thankful for what you've done," she said sincerely. I could feel something coming I was certain I didn't want to hear. Why else would she have thanked me a second time? She had a determined look on her face. "I have a habit of speaking plainly," she said forthrightly. Then she paused thoughtfully before continuing. "Sometimes I can be blunt. I don't mean to be rude, but I need to be straightforward. The fact that you broke into my grandparents' home and broke into here last night makes me feel uncomfortable. I recognize you've helped us a great deal. But there are some things I need to know about you in order to feel... um... to feel more comfortable having you in our home. I need to ask you some questions. If that's all right with you?"

She was leaning forward now, lightly rubbing her knees with her hands. She suddenly seemed anxious, but I believed she was eager to clear the air.

"I'll answer your questions as best I can," I told her. I wanted to clear the air too.

Behind Sarah, I saw Becky's head appear from around the corner of the door jamb. She was spying on us, though I doubted she could hear anything we were saying. I decided not to look directly at her. I didn't want to out her to her mother. But after a few moments, her head disappeared back into the room. 

"Can you tell me why you're breaking into people's homes?"

I took a breath and tried to relax before starting. I didn't want to say the wrong thing. "I'm working my way across the valley so I can get out of Salt Lake," I told her, making sure to maintain eye contact. "I started in Murray. I find homes that have been abandoned so I can have a place to stay. About a week-and-a-half ago, I ran out of food at my condo. I had to do something. I didn't want to starve." I thought the last sentence might strike a chord with her.

I chose my words carefully and made sure to avoid phrases like "breaking in" or "eating their food" or "using their stuff." And I made sure not to mention the word scavenge.

Sarah looked at me a bit puzzled. "How do you know if a home is abandoned?" she asked.

"It's not really that hard. If a home is shuttered up with the shades drawn or the curtains closed, like your home, then I know someone is likely there. If a home has windows that aren't covered up and there are lights on in the house, then there's a good chance no one is home. Anyone who survived the first week wouldn't have lights on in their home or uncovered windows."

She seemed satisfied with my answer. Then she asked a tougher question. "How do you know how to break into people's homes?"

I felt strangely wired as if I were back in college taking an exam. I took another deep breath to help calm my nerves. I didn't know why I was so nervous. I felt like a child who didn't want to give the wrong answer because of what it would mean. I wanted to make a good impression on Sarah, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. It wasn't because I liked her. She had hardly been friendly. Whatever the reason, I couldn't seem to stop myself from trying to sway her opinion of me, and I answered her break-in question as carefully and as logically as I could.

"I knew I couldn't break doors in or break windows because the infected would hear me. So I decided picking locks would be the safest way to get into abandoned houses. It was the only idea I could come up with that made sense." I kept using the word abandoned as if the homes no longer had an owner. I hoped it would make my breaking in seem less abhorrent to her.

Then I explained to her how I learned how to pick a lock. "I went online and watched videos on how to pick a lock. There were a lot of them. I kept watching the videos till I was certain I could pick a lock."

"But where did you get the tools to pick a lock?"

Sarah's face had softened and she seemed more relaxed. It was going well. I told her straight out how I got the lock pick set. I told her I'd picked one up from a deserted locksmith shop on 9th East the night I left my condo apartment. And I left it at that. I figured the fewer details I threw out there, the better.

She pondered my answer for a few moments, then she asked another question—of the softball variety. "And what do you do for a living?"

"I teach fifth graders at Beacon Heights Elementary," I told her.

She looked surprised in a good way. "You teach fifth graders?" she asked.

"Yes. For five years now."

Sarah relaxed noticeably. Her face softened and the worry line vanished. Telling her what I did for a living seemed to melt the tension between us. And then I wondered if the tension between us had been the reason for my desperate need to make a good impression on her. It made sense. Tense situations and confrontations had always made me anxious, and I always did my best to defuse them. Maybe that was it. Whatever the reason, I felt more relaxed.

Then she asked another question. "The bat you carry with you. It makes me uncomfortable. Have you had to use it?"

And just like that I was cooked. I could have lied to her, but I've always been a terrible liar. And I knew it would have been far worse if she caught me in a lie. Leaving details out and choosing my words carefully had been easy. But it was easy because I wasn't really lying. When it came to lying, I had no savvy. None whatsoever. It was the reason I had always avoided playing poker.

I decided to be perfectly open with her. What did I have to lose? "Yes, I've had to use my bat. I've been attacked a few times," I explained. "I had to defend myself." I left it at that and hoped my explanation would suffice.

But the worry line was back and she was all tensed up again. "Did you kill any of them?" she asked me, her eyes wide.