The Girl's Guide to the Apocalypse (5 page)

The water streamed slowly into the sink, making a dripping noise. The kind of sound that weighs on your bladder.

“Great,” Robert said. “Now I’ll have to go to the bathroom and there won’t be anywhere to do it.”

I found a glass in the cupboard and put it under the makeshift tap. Debra wrinkled her nose at it.

“I don’t know about that.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s all we have right now.”

“It’s just bottled water tastes so much better. It’s science.”

I smiled and nodded, then turned away from her.

The glass was half full and had a slight tinge of brown to it.

“Maybe we shouldn’t drink it,” I said. “What’s the rule about this?”

Robert grabbed the glass from my hand and tossed it down like a whiskey shot. He smacked his lips, savoring like a glass of fine wine.

“Not bad,” he said. “Refreshing if anything else. Where can I get some more?”

I pointed at the hose. “Probably have to wait a few more minutes,” I said. “Kind of slow.”

He rolled his eyes and placed the glass under it. “This is bull. We need a better system.”

He tapped his book. “There’s always a better system.” He stared hard at the slowly dripping water.

Priscilla entered, out of breath, arms full of what looked like food. Her eyes were wild, her face sweaty. I rushed over to her as she started to drop the contents onto the floor.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “Where have you been?”

“I was chased,” she panted. “I know I was stealing, but I was afraid they were going to kill me.”

I put my hand on her back out of sympathy and then recoiled it slightly at realizing how moist she was.

Debra bent over and picked up a wrapped loaf of bread. She wrinkled her nose.

“Really?” she asked. “Bread? What is your people’s fascination with carbs?”

“Would it make you feel better if she ran back out and got you some kale?” I asked dryly.

“Would that be so hard? Am I asking for the moon here?”

We had a stare down as I reached for the bread. I fumbled through the bag and took a slice out. Slowly, I brought it to my mouth and took a bite. It was soft and comforting, the best thing I’d eaten in weeks.

“It’s delicious,” I said. “Highly recommended if you haven’t eaten anything in days.”

Priscilla dropped the rest of the things in her arms. I saw some vegetables, more bread and a few canned items. I think they were soup.

“Here.” I tossed Debra a bell pepper and tomato. She caught them and then curiously looked at them as if confused as to what to do with them.

“What did you see?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bruce snag one of the cans, take a look, then let his face fall with disappointment.

Priscilla shook her head. “I was being stalked, I could feel it, and then I could hear it.”

She took a deep breath.

“But I saw a couple RVs,” she said. “They were camping. I thought I would go to them and ask if they’d seen my family.”

Debra shook her head. “Really? That was the first thing you thought of?”

“I knocked on the door,” Priscilla continued. “No one answered, so I just walked in. And there was all this food. Maybe I shouldn’t have stolen it, but I was just overcome with—” She choked up. “I haven’t eaten in so long, and they had bread. I’ve been craving it so badly.” She started to cry.

Bruce held up a can of soup. “What’s this?”

Priscilla looked down at his can.

“Clam chowder?” his voice dripped with disdain.

Debra shook her head. “Typical for a gluten addict,” she said. “Can’t discern what they’re allowing into their bodies.”

“It’s okay,” I said in my most soothing tone. “What happened?”

“I almost got caught,” she said. “I grabbed what I could and ran out of there, and I heard shouting and someone threw something at me.”

“That doesn’t mean you bring clam chowder back with you,” Bruce said. “You might as well bring us a visit from the lactose intolerance fairy.”

She turned her head to show her ear was bleeding. “I just hope I wasn’t followed.”

“Did they have water?” I asked.

“I saw a sink,” she said. “It was dripping.” She quickly became apologetic. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t get any in time.”

I shook my head. “No, of course not.”

“Did they have a bathroom?” Robert asked sincerely. “What were the mattress situations like?”

“Can you point to me where it is?” I asked.

She nodded and took me into the kitchen to the window by the back door. Bruce followed us.

“There,” she said, pointing to a general space behind the hill. “Behind those trees.”

“Did you happen to see if they had something like a minestrone or Italian wedding, maybe a comforting chicken noodle?”

“Bruce!” I said. “Really?”

“If we cook this, do you realize it’s going to stink up the house?” he asked. “Does no one think of these things?”

She carefully put her pilfered supplies into the cupboard before leaving the bread for herself. She crawled into the corner and gnawed on it while I stared out the window, polishing off another slice. I thought about how I should have gone with her. Together we could have brought in twice as much. I was also struck by how this woman ignored everyone’s ill treatment and still brought them food. It was inconceivable to me.

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“You’re thinking about going there, aren’t you?” Robert asked.

I turned around and saw that he looked genuinely concerned.

“I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” he said. “What matters is that Iris is okay and that we continue to look out for each other.”

“Priscilla,” I said.

“Priscilla,” he said. “Her too.”

He was thoughtful for a moment.

“Promise me something,” he said sternly.

I stared at him, inwardly refusing to move my head in agreement to whatever it was he was about to say.

“Don’t go down there,” he said. “At least not by yourself.”

He turned around and left.

Bruce entered, still holding the can of soup. “This is disgusting,” he said. “I would kill for some beef with broccoli at that place we used to go to. You know the one? By your house?”

I shook my head and smiled, thinking about what it’d be like to be in a house full of different people. I tried to imagine my parents huddled by the fire, singing songs and grateful for the clam chowder that was in front of them.

I waited the entire day, long into the night, before I left the house again. I bundled up as best as I could and made sure everyone was fast asleep before quietly shutting the door behind me. I said a quick prayer under my breath and tried to follow Priscilla’s vague directions.

I tripped several times and felt an eerie chill, but pressed on until I could see lights—fire lights down below followed by human voices that sounded actually happy. When I was able to get a clear view, I saw everything just as Priscilla described it—a few RVs on the sand. There were people going in and out, and I smelled a hot meal cooking over flames. My stomach rolled over and begged me for it, but I stood still, taking in as much as I could.

A blond-haired man came out of the middle RV, holding a guitar and stood at attention in the center of the campsite.

“Hey, everyone!” he shouted. “Who’s up for singing a few songs before we say goodnight?”

The others clapped and cheered in agreement. He had a nice voice, but there was something familiar about it. I knew I had heard his voice somewhere before.

“It’ll be a few more minutes until dinner’s done,” he said. “Who’s got a request?”

A man raised his hand. “I know we did it last night, but it was so much fun to sing that song about how we’re all fireworks,” he said.

There were a few groans. Someone else raised their hand.

“Let’s sing that song about being stronger,” a young college age woman said. “You know the one. Stronger as a people, or dreaming something. That one.”

There was some scattered applause, and the leader tuned his guitar. Within a few minutes, he had hit a few opening chords and people started to sing. I hummed along, wondering the last time I had sang aloud in a group.

I crawled closer to the action and tried to sit myself down comfortably where I could hear everything. The smell of food was more powerful than ever and my stomach growled incessantly. I had only eaten two pieces of stolen bread, mostly because Debra made fun of Robert and Bruce for it and I wasn’t in the mood. But now I wished I had.

There was a rock poking me in the backside, so I shifted around, only to accidently sit on a branch and break it. That stopped the music and caused everyone to freeze.

“No one panic!” the leader whispered.

I froze too. These people seemed nice and were happily adapting to a simpler time, but here I had disturbed it, setting off whatever anger they’d unleashed at Priscilla. I turned around and made a move to crawl back up the hill when I heard someone shout. My pants were now slipping and I had to pull them up.

“There!” they said. “Someone’s spying on us on the hill!”

Just then, someone shined a light on my backside, perfectly framing my ass crack, which was now exposed from the slipping waist of my jeans. I tried in vain to climb up, but a mild sand slide made my feet slip. I turned around to see the entire tribe staring my way.

I grimaced. “Sorry!” I said. I straightened, turned around and put my hands up in the air. “I don’t mean you any harm,” I said. “I heard your music and just wanted to see what it was.”

Everyone was still staring. I shook, but tried to take long, deep breaths to make myself seem calmer.

The leader took a few steps forward and raised an eyebrow. His face, silver hair and rugged features were extremely familiar, and I knew that I knew him. I had never met him, but I knew I had seen him somewhere, like on television.

He held his guitar protectively in front of him like a shield. I kept my hands up.

“Where do you come from?” he asked.

With one hand I gestured up. “Over the hill,” I said. “There’s a house that a few of us are staying in for the moment.”

“Are you the ones who stole our food?” one of the women shouted.

“Why aren’t you at one of the quarantines?” he asked.

His voice was deep and smooth like a radio announcer’s.

“Our bus was attacked,” I said. “We don’t know where it is.”

“You can understand why we don’t trust you,” he said. “Right?”

I nodded. I stared at him when it suddenly dawned on me where I had seen him.

“You’re Darren Warren, aren’t you?” I asked.

A large grin came over his face. He nodded and seemed a bit more relaxed, put his hands in the air. “Guilty as charged,” he said with a hearty laugh.

“I thought so,” I said. “You seemed really familiar.”

He clasped my hand in both of his. “So good to meet a fan.”

For those who don’t know, Darren Warren was the city’s predominant theater critic. He was a thin man of smallish stature, older with a hard-set chin ready to judge at any moment’s notice. Normally, I wouldn’t follow theater criticisms, but Bruce did and frequently had shown me reviews with pictures of Darren’s glowering face. He had only been to one of Bruce’s plays, and while the review wasn’t positive or negative, he just felt very nonchalant about Bruce’s performance. He also had spelled Bruce’s name wrong, which was the biggest source of sorrow for him.

“The fact he didn’t even bother to know my name,” he’d wept over coffee, the paper in front of him. It was the morning after a performance, and he’d been so excited to see the review. He’d given no sign of letting it go, which meant I was never going to hear the end of it, which I didn’t for almost three weeks. And now there was Darren in front of me and I felt growing excitement over what could possibly happen when Bruce found out.

He beamed. “Which one of my reviews did you like best?” he asked.

“That one,” I said carefully. “The one you did about the guy. It was very serious. And moving.”

“Ah.
Geography of a Horse Dreamer
.” He closed his eyes and nodded. “Sam Shepherd at his most honest. That was a good one.”

He gathered his robe tightly around him. It seemed as though he might have been naked under it. I prayed to God that wasn’t the case.

He clapped his hands. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot to me now that an era of the theatrical arts has passed. Who knows what new inspiration will rise? What’s your name?

“Darren!” someone shouted. He looked over his shoulder, where three of his wide-eyed followers in bathrobes earnestly stared at him.

“Don’t you think we should have a group discussion?” asked the man in the middle.

“About what?”

“Some of us want to perform a
Breaking Bad
episode, but some people want to watch something else. Lighter fare, if you will.”

The three looked anxious as the man in the middle rubbed his palms together.

“I see.” He pursed his lips and looked at me. “Do you mind if we excuse ourselves for the moment?” he asked.

“Please,” I said. “I’m the one who crashed your party.”

He smiled and pointed at me as he backed away. “That’s good. You don’t have any acting experience, do you?”

I blushed. It was involuntary. “Bet you were pretty convinced that I was terrified a moment ago.”

He turned away and joined the rest of his tribe. He spoke impassioned, but in low tones that I couldn’t hear. I tried to lean in, but a few of the other bystanders gave me the side eye. I could tell I was not to be trusted, but they seemed to nod to whatever it was Darren said.

They broke into polite golf applause.

“We will be watching an interpretation of
Friends
episode 323. The One with Ross’ Thing, starring our very own accomplished thespian, Steve Harks.”

Darren returned to me with open arms and pulled me up to my feet. “As for you…”

He took the time to enjoy his dramatic pause, closing his eyes, gripping my hands tightly, and reached down and grabbed some fat around my waist. I jerked away, a little creeped out.

“You are full of everything we want,” he said.

“Am I?” I said. “Okay.”

He looked at me, his smile slightly went downturned.