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KATE
The bottle of brandy is heavy in my hands. As I follow Roberts into the house, I carry it in front of me like a shield. Like I can hide behind a glass bottle.
The back door opens into a large kitchen. Yellowed linoleum covers the floor. The cupboards are beat-up red oak that look like they were installed in the nineties. Christmas lights are tacked to the top of the cupboards, dormant with the lack of electricity.
Past the kitchen is an archway that leads into a sitting room. A large pool table fills half the opening. Surrounded by chairs, it looks like it does double duty as the dining room table.
Beyond the table is a mishmash of sofas. The boys are sprawled around a coffee table playing cards as they pass around a bottle of tequila.
Yuck. Tequila for breakfast? With pancakes? I’m sure that never made it onto any restaurant menu. Ever.
A girl in military fatigue pants stands at the kitchen table flipping pancakes on a propane camp stove. Like everyone else, she looks to be in her early twenties. Thick black hair is swept into a ponytail. Her wife beater tank top shows off well-muscled arms. She could be a poster child for CrossFit.
“I’m glad it’s the apocalypse,” she says without looking up as we enter. “Sooner or later you’re going to run out of cigarettes. You won’t—who the hell is that?” Her eyes narrow as she catches sight of me, her hand going to her gun.
“Woah, Ash.” Roberts holds up his hands. “This is Kate. She’s just here to talk. She’s from the tithe group we established the other night.”
From first glance, I wouldn’t have thought the boys in the other room were paying attention to anything beyond their cards and their tequila. As soon as Roberts speaks, they explode into action.
Cards fly into the air as the boys leap to their feet. The soldiers draw their weapons. The college boys also pull out firearms, though not with the smooth efficiency of the soldiers.
Ash goes back to flipping the pancakes, letting the boys handle the situation. I try to get a read on her, but she’s mastered inscrutable.
“What the fuck, Roberts?” Johnson demands.
“Kate is here to have breakfast with us,” Roberts replies, unruffled by the agitated boys with guns. “She wants to talk.”
“Unless she wants to suck me off, there’s nothing to talk about,” Johnson retorts.
My grip tightens on the brandy.
“Can you all just calm the fuck down?” Roberts asks. “She’s just here to talk.”
“How did you find us?” Johnson asks. “We don’t advertise our location.”
I bypass the question. “I brought a peace offering.” I step around Roberts, displaying the bottle of brandy. I make eye contact with Johnson. I want to smash the bottle in his face, but I force my best mom smile. The one that promises cinnamon rolls and a cup of hot chocolate for good little boys. “Word has it that you like brandy. I had this bottle dug up especially for you.”
A slow smile spreads across Johnson’s face. I remember that smug, feral expression from the other night. “Why didn’t you say so?” He holsters his gun. “Come on in.”
I stay beside Roberts. I trust him to keep me in one piece, but he can’t do that if I’m on the other side of the room.
Together, we cross to the pool table. I place the bottle of brandy on the worn green felt. My palms are sweaty from nerves. I press them flat against the table, meeting Johnson’s gaze with a level stare of my own.
“Would you like a pancake, Kate?” Roberts asks.
“That sounds good,” I reply. Seeing the bag of Krusteaz on the table makes my blood boil. That was our pancake mix.
I take a seat. Within fifteen minutes, everyone is gathered around the pool table eating pancakes. A bottle of Aunt Jemima syrup is passed around.
My stomach feels like lead. The last thing I want to do is eat, but I force down a bite. If it’s one thing I learned from ultrarunning, it’s how to push forward with a bad stomach.
No one speaks. The only sound is that of forks against plates. The boys stare at me with a mixture of curiosity, distrust, and arrogance. I count nine altogether. Four soldiers and five college boys, plus Ash, who is still in the kitchen making pancakes. What does she think of all this?
“So, Kate,” Johnson drawls between bites. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”
I gauge the room as I take a bite of my pancake, determining the best way to move forward. Playing the scared sympathy card won’t get me anywhere with this bunch. Neither will bravado or threats.
In the end, I decide to play the mom card. It’s the one I know best, and it worked to some extent last night. A mom offering a reasonable compromise, not a mom trying to cram her opinion down a kid’s throat.
“I want to talk about neighbors,” I reply.
He snorts. “As in, we’re neighbors?”
“Exactly.” I set my fork down. “It used to be that everyone had neighbors. Sometimes you couldn’t get away from them. I could tell you about periods of my life where I went out of my way to avoid certain neighbors.”
A small murmur of agreement runs around the table as everyone continues to shovel pancakes into their mouths.
“These days, neighbors are scarce. If you want to play cards with a friend, you’re shit out of luck because there are no neighbors. If you need someone to help you move furniture, you’re shit out of luck because there are no neighbors.” I tilt my head, letting my gaze linger on Johnson. “My point is, there are benefits to neighbors. We help each other out. We bring each other gifts.” I gesture to the bottle of brandy.
“We don’t need gifts,” Ryan sneers. “We take what we need.”
“Everyone needs gifts,” I reply. “Everyone needs favors. Roberts.” I turn to him. He sits to my left. “Would you mind reaching into my pocket and pulling out the paper there? I’d do it myself, but I don’t want anyone to think I have a weapon.”
Roberts complies. His hand dips into the pocket of my coat and emerges with the folded piece of paper. I take it from him and smooth it out on the table.
“This is a list of all the supplies in the Fern dorm,” I say. “My kids cleared it. I’m giving it to you, Johnson. You and your people. A gift. A kindness. That’s what neighbors do for each other. There’s enough rations in there to feed you guys for a month.”
His eyes narrow at me. “We don’t need favors. We take what we need.”
“Think of the big picture,” I say. “You could have us working with you. We can clear buildings together. Your people and my people. We split everything fifty-fifty. You’ll have more supplies that way. We can watch each other’s backs. Everyone wins. It can be good to have neighbors.”
“I don’t see how we win in that scenario,” Johnson says. “Sounds to me like you’re trying to get us to do work for you.”
I shake my head. “A community goes further when everyone works together. It doesn’t have to be you and us. We can be on the same side. The real battle is out there.” I pick up my fork, jabbing in the direction of the university. “The undead. We should be fighting them, not each other.” I spear a piece of pancake and shove it in my mouth to keep from saying more. I’m skating too close to a mom lecture. That won’t get me anywhere.
“Huh.” Johnson grunts and returns to his pancakes. “Ash, bring me another hot one, will you?” When she delivers the requested pancake, he slaps her on the ass.
Ash whirls and slaps his hand with her spatula. Johnson bursts out laughing. The other boys all laugh, too. Ash, spine stiff, stalks back into the kitchen.
Johnson digs into his pancake. He watches me as he eats, chewing loudly. I return his stare, eating my pancake. I feel like throwing up. I’ve never been this nervous in my life.
This is for Carter, I remind myself. For Carter and everyone else. I have to keep them alive and safe.
“Do you want another one?” Johnson points his fork at my empty plate. “Neighbors cook for each other, don’t they?”
“They do,” I reply.
“Ash,” Johnson barks. “Get our neighbor another pancake.” He saunters around the table in my direction.
As Ash brings a pancake to me, the golden circle balanced on top of the spatula, Johnson smiles at me. Ash deposits the pancake on my plate, expression blank.
“Syrup?” Johnson holds out the bottle of Aunt Jemima to me.
Unease slithers through me, but I force a smile. “Yes, thank you.”
His eyes never leaving mine, Johnson pours the syrup over the top of my pancake.
His free hand whips out. It connects with the back of my head, slamming my face down into the plate. Hard.
Pain bursts behind my eyes and forehead. I reel back, syrup and mashed pancake on my face.
“Is this neighborly enough for you?” Johnson grabs a fistful of my hair, dragging me backward out of my chair. Then he shoves me, sending me sprawling across the dirty linoleum. The boys whoop, cheering him on.
“Kick her ass,” one of them shouts.
“Show her who’s boss,” calls another.
Ash has abandoned her camp stove. She’s cleared out of the kitchen, hovering just inside the sitting room. Her face is impassive, but her skin has paled. Her knuckles are white around the spatula.
Johnson leers down at me, advancing. I scrabble to my feet and back up, bumping up against the counter on the far wall.
Johnson laughs, a big booming sound that scissors across every nerve in my body.
He knows how to fight and kill. He’s bigger and stronger and trained. I can’t stand against him. The only way I’m going to make it out of this alive is if I surprise him. That means letting him get close enough to hit me again. I’ll go for my knife when he strikes. It will be my one and only chance.
I swallow as he draws closer. His boots caress the linoleum, barely making a sound as he stalks near. I brace myself, mentally preparing myself for his next blow. My heart hammers with fear. It takes all my willpower not to turn and run.
Roberts steps between us. His arms hang at his side, hands loose. “I promised Kate she wouldn’t be harmed,” he says.
The boys around the pool table boo. “Why’d you do a dumb shit thing like that for?” one calls.
Johnson shoulders up to Roberts. The two young men are nose to nose. Roberts doesn’t back down.
“Get the fuck out of my way,” Johnson snarls.
“I gave her my word, Johnson,” Roberts replies. “You know what that means.”
“Fuck your word. Get out of my way.”
“No.”
“Motherfucker.” Johnson is the first to back down. “God damn motherfucker.”
Roberts glances over his shoulder at me. “Get out of here,” he says.
I don’t have to be told twice. I turn and run. I run hard and fast, not slowing or stopping until I get back to Creekside.