| |
KATE
I wasn’t happy when the kids left on their beer run. However, since it was the first thing they had done that resembled a supply run, I didn’t try to stop them. As Johnny wraps up details of the College Creek encounter, I vow to go with them next time.
Reed taps the keg and Eric rounds everyone up for God of War. I watch the entrance to the hallway where Carter and Jenna disappeared, silently praying they’ll make up.
When Carter emerges a few minutes later, eyes brighter than they’ve been in days, I inwardly cheer. I wait a few more minutes, hoping Jenna will show.
When it becomes apparent she isn’t coming, I sigh. Maybe things are going in the right direction, but they haven’t completely made up yet.
I retreat to the kitchen to find dinner. I select a can of baked beans and join Johnny at the kitchen table, clearing myself a small spot between his notebooks, radio, and maps.
“I’m glad you all made it back safely,” I say to Johnny, cracking open my can. I could warm up the beans, but it doesn’t seem worth the effort. Besides, room temperature isn’t all that bad.
“I got good material for my piece on the fall of Humboldt University.” Johnny extracts a notebook out of the stack, scratching a sideburn with his pen cap. “The run-in with the creeps makes for a good story.”
“How long have you been writing?” I ask.
“Ever since junior high when I joined the school newspaper,” Johnny says. “I never wanted to go to college. I wanted to travel the world, meet people, and write about them. Mom and Dad freaked out when I told them my plan. They said that if I agreed to go to college and get my degree, they would sponsor a one-year trip around the world when I graduated.”
“Sounds like a pretty good deal,” I say around a mouthful of beans.
“I thought so.” Johnny fills two cups with beer from the keg, passing one to me. “That’s when I got my idea to interview people around the world using a high-frequency ham radio. I put an antenna up on the dorm roof at the beginning of the semester when I first moved in. Did you know that if you lock into the right receivers, you can talk to people on the other side of the globe? It was sort of like traveling. Before all this zombie shit happened, I was interviewing two ladies from Manhattan. They sold all their possessions and moved to Thailand to run an elephant sanctuary. I probably know more about elephant breeding habits than most people. Did you know the average elephant is pregnant for twenty-two months? And that baby elephants are blind when they’re born?”
I shake my head, guzzling down half my beer. It’s warm but still tastes delicious.
“Anyway,” Johnny continues, “that book is called Voices From Around the World. The subtitle is Why Are We Here? The premise is that I ask each person what led them to being where they are today.”
“So, what led the two women to sell all their belongings to open an elephant sanctuary?”
“One was a life-long vegan who ran a successful bakery in Manhattan. She felt like she needed to give back to the world in a big way. Her partner was a corporate lawyer who got sick of all the greed. She wanted to find work that was rewarding for her soul, rather than her pocketbook.”
Up until this point, I hadn’t realized how interesting Johnny was, or what part the ham radio played in his life.
“You said you’re compiling a story about the fall of Humboldt,” I say. “What’s that one about?”
“It’s going into my collection entitled Voices of the Apocalypse,” Johnny replies. “Subtitle, First Days. I’ve been writing down all that’s happened to us, but I also have eight interviews from other people so far. Five in the U.S., two in Canada, and one in Germany.”
I still, his words sinking into my chest. “You’re interviewing people in other countries?”
He nods.
My mouth goes dry. I had assumed the world—or at least my world—was changed forever. In my head, I saw wasted American cities cluttered with the undead.
What I had not considered were other countries.
“You okay, Kate?”
“Have you had contact with any countries besides Canada or Germany?” I ask.
“Sweden and India, but no official interviews so far.”
The scope of the outbreak spreads in my mind. I glance up as Reed lets out a whoop in front of the Xbox.
“Have you mentioned this to anyone here?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Even with this information, Johnny hasn’t stepped into the new world. He’s so consumed with his project that he’s let important details—like the gathering of food and water—slide.
Johnny rifles through the maps on the table, pulling out one of Europe marked with red dots. “These are the places where I made contact with people.”
I sort through the maps, noting red dots in the towns and countries where Johnny interviewed survivors.
“What are people saying?” I ask. “Is it as bad in other places as it is here?”
“Yeah. As far as I can tell, it started here in the U.S. in Portland. At the port, to be exact. But there were attacks in other ports around the country not long after. Same thing in Europe.”
“What about other continents? South America? Africa?”
“I haven’t talked to anyone in those parts of the world. But some of my contacts have mentioned outbreaks in those places. I-I think there’s a chance it’s worldwide.”
“Johnny.” I search his face. “You more than anyone else here knows we’re at the beginning of a new world. Why are you spending your days with your notebooks and ham radio when we need to be stockpiling food?”
He shuffles through the maps, not meeting my eye. “I’m a writer. That’s it. I can talk to people and record their stories.” His voice drops. “I don’t know how to do anything else.”
“But you can find out.” I point to his radio.
“What?”
I slam my palm against the tabletop in my excitement, which makes him jump. “Johnny, you’re collecting survival stories. Don’t you see how important that is? You have firsthand information on how other people are surviving the apocalypse.”
“Oh.” He blinks, scratching at his sideburns. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“I need you to keep talking to people. Keep interviewing. Start asking people for survival tips. Make a list. Write down every little tip and piece of advice you can glean, even if it doesn’t seem important.”
Johnny perks up. “A survival guide.” I can tell he’s deep in thought as his eyes un-focus. “A Post-Apocalypse Survival Guide. No, too generic. That sounds like something that could have been written before the shit hit the fan.”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s formulating another book title. “Zombie Survival Tips from the Living?” I suggest.
“Too clunky.” He chews his bottom lip. “How about ... How to Survive: Tips From Survivors of the Zombie Apocalypse ... no, that uses survive twice.”
“How to Persevere? How to Carry On? How to Tough It Out?” I chuckle at that last one. I could write a book on how to tough it out, though I’m sure no one would read it.
Johnny laughs too, a smile creasing his pensive face. “How to Survive and Thrive?”
“How to Thrive?”
“How to Thrive in the Apocalypse.” Johnny seizes a new notebook and scribbles out the title. “Yes! That’s it. I love the word thrive. It’s more than just surviving. Surviving can mean hiding out in the latrine and drinking your own piss to stay alive. I don’t want to write about that. I want to help people do more than just survive. I want to write about thriving.”
“We want to thrive,” I agree. After a beat, I add, “I have your first tip on how to thrive.”
“What is it?” Johnny leans forward, pen poised over the pale blue lines of his notebook.
“How to thrive, rule number one,” I say. “Even if the world has ended, don’t steal from drug dealers.”
This inspires a peal of laughter so loud the commotion around the Xbox lulls.
“What are you guys laughing about?” Reed asks.
“Kate and I are just making a list of ways to thrive in the apocalypse,” Johnny replies.
“Cool,” Eric says before his attention shifts back to God of War.
Johnny hunches over his notebook, writing as fast as he can. “Number two: avoid everyone in a uniform.”
“I disagree,” I say. “Not all soldiers murder college kids. I met a young soldier on the way here. He helped me bury my friend’s daughter. His name was Alvarez. Guy had a good heart.”
I take another long pull off the beer, remembering that nightmare of a day. I’d probably still be digging Aleisha’s grave if Alvarez hadn’t been there to help. Hand-dug graves always look like neat rectangles in the movies. In reality, you’re lucky to get a lopsided hole wide enough to hold a corpse in the fetal position.
Johnny stops scribbling and looks up at me. “Wait, what did you say the name of that guy was?”
“What guy?
“The guy who helped you bury your friend.”
“Alvarez.”
“Alvarez.” Johnny grabs the ham. “I’ve been talking to a guy named Foot Soldier. He’s living in an old Russian fort on the coast.”
“Fort Ross?” I ask.
“Yeah. You know it?”
“Yeah. I’ve been there. Carter had a field trip there when he was a kid. I was one of the chaperones.”
Johnny’s eyes light up. “Foot Soldier says it is a big ass fort with a twenty-foot wall all the way around it.”
“Sounds like Fort Ross. That wouldn’t be a bad place to weather the apocalypse. Too bad it’s so far away from here.”
“The point is, this guy’s real name isn’t Foot Soldier. That’s just his handle. His real name is Alvarez. What if it’s the same guy?”
“You mean, what if this Alvarez is the same Alvarez I met?”
“Yeah.” Johnny adjusts the dial on the ham, then leans forward to speak into it. “Foot Soldier, this is Wandering Writer. Are you there? Over.”
Seems unlikely, but I don’t have it in me to burst Johnny’s excitement. The young man I met in Laytonville was as green as they come. He was also on foot. The chance that he made it all the way to Fort Ross is slim to none.
The ham crackles in Johnny’s hand. “This is Foot Soldier. How’s it going in your neck of the woods? Over.”
Johnny oozes excitement. “Hey, Foot Soldier, I have a friend here. Her name is Kate. We think you guys might know each other. Did you by any chance help a woman bury someone on your way to Fort Ross? Over.”
“Holy shit,” comes the response. “Yeah, I did. Are those crazy runners with you?”