| |
JENNA
It’s been three days since Carter and I got into a fight and he started sleeping on the living room floor.
It’s been two days since he started painting Skip with Kate instead of me.
It’s been exactly one day since my hurt evaporated and turned into anger. Carter wants to be an ass and ignore me? Two can play that game. There will be no more groveling or apologizing from me. If he wants to talk, he can come to me.
I throw myself into my new routine. In the morning, I work out with Kate in the stairwell. The rest of the day, I keep myself busy by plundering kitchens and bedrooms in Creekside. I converted the burned dorm suite into a storage area, which is starting to resemble a small grocery store.
After some cajoling and bribing with a pack of Oreos, Eric, Reed, and Johnny helped me clear half a dozen rooms and drag the bodies downstairs. Other than that, they have yet to lift a finger.
Eric and Reed spend their days playing video games. I swear Eric’s potbelly is getting larger every day. Johnny is glued to his ham radio. Lila is busy reading and making her concoctions. The only thing useful any of them has done is agree to wash dishes and take out the trash to keep the ants at bay.
“Oh my God,” Johnny says into the ham radio as I deposit my latest collection of food stores on the kitchen floor. “I can’t believe you guys have a whole fucking fort. That is so cool, man.”
“A fort?” I pause, a case of Kraft macaroni and cheese in my arms, intrigued despite my grumpiness. “Who has a fort?” And are they talking about a blanket fort, or some other type of fort?
“There’s an old Russian fort somewhere on the coast,” Johnny replies. “This guy, Alvarez, is living there. His handle is Foot Soldier. Here, say hi.”
I drop the case of mac ‘n cheese and take the ham from Johnny. “Hello?”
A response crackles through the radio. “Hello? This is Foot Soldier. Over.”
“Tell him your name,” Johnny prompts.
“My name is Jenna. What’s this I hear about a fort?” Are there normal people out there who believe in surviving? If so, I want to meet them.
Johnny elbows me. “Say, ‘over.’”
“Over,” I add, feeling self-conscious.
“I’m in a Russian fort built in the early eighteen hundreds,” Foot Soldier replies. “It was preserved and converted into a state park. We have a windmill to mill grain, an orchard, and space to garden. There’s a big wall around the fort and a few old houses inside. We need more people to help run this place. I told Wandering Writer you guys should come here. Over.”
“Wandering Writer?” I ask.
“It’s my handle on the ham.” Johnny grabs a map, spreading it out on the table. Grabbing the ham from me, he says, “Foot Soldier, this is Wandering Writer. What’s the closest town to your location? Over.”
“Timber Cove. Seriously, you guys gotta come here. Over.”
While the idea of joining up with a bona fide survival group does sound good, I’m skeptical we could safely travel far.
Johnny traces the coastline of California. He starts at the Oregon border and works his way down. My heart sinks as his finger drops lower and lower on the map.
“Foot Soldier, did you say you’re in northern California? Over,” Johnny says.
“Yeah. Just look for Timber Cove. South of Mendocino. Over.”
Johnny’s finger continues along the coast. Down, down, and down.
“Fuck me.” Johnny stares down at the map. “Fort Ross might technically be on the north coast of California, but it’s a long way from here.”
I lean over the map, taking in the tiny dot of Arcata and the long, long way between our tiny town and Johnny’s finger.
“That’s gotta be a few hundred miles,” I say. Not only that, it looks like there’s only one major highway near Fort Ross and the only way to reach it is by backtracking through much of the territory Kate traveled to get here. Seeing how bad she was when she arrived doesn’t make me think any of us could make it. Kate is tougher than all of us combined.
“No go,” Johnny says into the ham. “You’re too far away, Foot Soldier. No way for us to get there. Over.”
“Damn,” Foot Soldier replies. “Too bad. We could have used you guys. Over.”
I don’t bother telling him he’s better off without the dead weight Creekside boys.
Johnny and Foot Soldier continue to talk, exchanging survival stories. I listen as I return to organizing our stores.
Foot Soldier was in the military when all hell broke loose. His platoon was assigned to a roadblock. They were overrun. No one made it out except him. The guy traveled all the way to Fort Ross on foot. That’s probably how he came up with his handle.
At least the guy is being proactive. He’s not wasting his days away playing video games and smoking joints or painting a van.
The door opens. Carter and Kate enter, laughing over something. Carter’s laugh fades as he spots me watching them. He looks away when our eyes meet.
Frustration wells in my chest. Fuck him. Fuck all these idiots.
I brush past Carter and Kate, grabbing my shoes, spear, and jacket.
“Where are you going?” Kate asks.
I don’t look at her when I answer. “I’m going out to get some beer.”
“Beer?” Kate’s brow creases. “Can’t you just tap the kegs in Skip?”
I shake my head. “Carter is doing a double fermentation on them. They won’t be ready for another few weeks.”
“That’s a great idea,” Reed says, looking up with bloodshot eyes. The guy is so stoned it’s not even funny. “We should go to the Depot.”
“That’s my plan,” I reply crisply. So what if none of us has ventured beyond the parking lot since the outbreak? We have to cross the threshold of our little bubble eventually. Might as well be right now. I can’t think of a better reason than beer.
“There are solar panels at the Depot,” Eric says. “I’ve been wanting to check them out.” He glances at Kate. “You asked about a washing machine. I think those panels might be large enough to power one. If I can get one of them off the roof, maybe I can get a washing machine running.”
Reed pops one of Eric’s brownies into his mouth. “I am so high right now.”
“You guys aren’t going anywhere,” Carter declares. “You two”—he points a finger at Reed and Eric—“are stoned.”
“I’m only a little stoned,” Eric says.
“You”—Carter points a finger at me—“can’t go out by yourself. It’s not safe.”
Anger hits me like a brick. Carter ignores me for three days, then has the nerve to think to can tell me what I can and can’t do?
I can’t stay here. I have to move, have to do something. The dorm is too small, too confining, too close to Carter. I have to get away from him and his stupidly handsome face.
“Fuck it,” I say to Reed and Eric. “Let’s go get solar panels and beer. I want to be drunk and I want to wash my clothes.”
“Now you’re talking.” Eric grins, rising to his feet.
“Reed,” I say, “you can only come if you promise not to attract the attention of psychotic drug mules.”
Reed waves a hand, drifting toward the sofa. “I think Carter is right. I’m too stoned to go on a beer run. I’m taking a nap.” He falls onto the cushions, eyes closing before his head hits the pillows.
“I’ll go,” Johnny says. “I can write about this.”
Kate looks at me. When our eyes meet, I feel exposed. She knows exactly why I’m acting out like a toddler. She must think I’m an idiot. She probably thinks I’m not good enough for Carter.
“I’ll go with you guys.” Carter grabs a spear. He gives me a look, daring me to argue with him. “I’m going,” he says to me.
“Do whatever you want.” I stalk past him and out the door.