“PHILADELPHIA. NEW YORK. PITTSBURGH. Boston. Baltimore. DC.” The Voice has been replaced for tonight with the higher-pitched voice of a girl calling herself Raven. The Voice is on the run, she said. In hiding, because the feds are closing in on him. She’s listing the cities that have been black-zoned. “Almost the entire East Coast, folks, yes, that’s right. Ohio seems to be okay, based on what we can find out, but anything east of the Pennsylvania border is toast. On the West Coast, California’s totally gone, obviously. It was the Hollywood virus, am I right?”
Opal looks up from where she’s been working on a word-search puzzle. Dexter yawns from his place beside her, then puts his nose back between his paws. “We’re in a black zone?”
“Yes.” I’m folding laundry and sorting out things that need repairs. Mostly stuff for Dillon, since his clothes get the most wear and tear. We’ve been raiding closets and dressers as well as pantries, but the whole point of that is to make sure we have enough to last us for a long time—not to toss things when they get worn. So I’m looking for buttons that are missing and holes that can be patched. I feel domestic and housewifely, and I don’t really like it. I spent the morning scrubbing all this stuff in a washtub out back, using a legitimate scrubbing board he brought home after finding it in someone’s garbage.
This is not the life I’d dreamed of.
“So … what does that mean?” Opal bends over the book, with her pencil gripped in her fist, her tongue between her teeth in concentration.
“That there was more Contamination here than in other places, so we’re affected more.”
“There’s still more here, huh?” She gives me a look.
There’s no point in lying to her. “Yes. That’s why we’re on strict rations, so they can help keep it from spreading. All the food’s tested and stuff.”
“How come it’s not working?”
“Because people who were Contaminated already might not know it or show symptoms until later. That’s why they’re testing people.” I sort out a work shirt with a grease stain I couldn’t get clean. There’s a tear in the sleeve, and my fingertips hurt already, thinking of pushing a sewing needle through the thick fabric.
“That’s why you don’t go to town anymore.” Opal stabs the book with her pencil, snapping the point. “What time is Dillon going to be home?”
“I don’t know.” With a sigh, I put aside the work shirt and focus on the rest of the laundry. Even with the scrub board, none of it’s very clean. But it’s warm from drying in the sun, and I hate to think about what I’ll do when winter comes around again.
“What’s for dinner?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“What’s Mama doing?”
“Opal,” I snap, “I don’t know, okay? Go find out!”
Opal sniffs, affronted. “Just asking. I’m bored.”
“Finish your word search.” I shake a shirt to get the wrinkles out, but why does it matter? When everything’s dingy and stained, anyway?
“I did!”
“Then help me fold laundry,” I tell her. “Make yourself useful. Maybe it’s time you start helping out a little more around here, Opal. I’m tired of doing all of this myself.”
Opal’s eyes widen, then narrow. Her lower lip pushes out, and she crosses her arms. “I help out. I do lots of stuff.”
“You should do more.” I straighten, my back aching. “Why don’t you make dinner?”
Her eyes get big again. “You mean it?”
I shrug, thinking about what a big deal it was when my parents started letting me use the stove. I was a little older than Opal is now. And, honestly, I’d love it if someone else made dinner sometimes. I don’t trust my mom with the stove, and Mrs. Holly says she doesn’t trust herself with it. Old fingers, she says.
“What do you want to make?” I ask in the kitchen as we stand in the pantry and look at all the stuff we’ve collected from Sandra’s basement.
“Macaroni and cheese!”
I laugh. “That’s not very challenging.”
“I wish we could have pizza,” Opal says longingly.
Me, too. My mouth waters at the thought of it. Thick, crisp crust. Layers of gooey, real cheese. Tomato sauce. Garlic.
“We could have spaghetti.” I touch the boxes of pasta, the jars of sauce. “And a salad from the garden. We could make some garlic bread with those saltines and some olive oil and garlic powder.”
Opal sighs. “It’s not pizza.”
“It’s not a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, either.” It’s something my dad always used to say, and for a moment we stare at each other like we both might burst into tears.
Instead, laughter bubbles up and out of me as I think of him. It’s such a silly thing to say, but it was typical of him. I miss my dad so much, but these memories, these good things he gave us, will always stay. Tears sting me, but I laugh and laugh, and after a minute, Opal does, too.
Dillon finds us in hysterics in the pantry, and I can tell by the way he flings himself into the doorway that our shrieking laughter scared him. Opal holds out the box of crackers, her giggles shaking her so hard, the plastic sleeve of saltines rattles inside the cardboard. I’m doubled over, holding my stomach, each round of laughter rising and leading into the next.
“It’s not a poke in the eye!” Opal cries.
“With a sharp stick,” I add, breathless.
Dillon stares.
“Velvet’s letting me make dinner!” Opal giggles.
He visibly relaxes, leaning against the door frame. His face is dirty, and so are his clothes. He doesn’t smell so great, either. “What’s for dinner?”
“Spaghetti.” She holds up the crackers. “And garlic bread.”
He looks a little confused, but smiles. “Sounds great. Can’t wait; I’m starving.”
“Were you able to get some gas for the generator?” I ask as we set the pasta, sauce, and crackers on the kitchen island. We ran out a few days ago. I’d given him the last of the money I found in Sandra’s purse this morning, but I knew it wouldn’t buy much. Gas is now close to ten dollars a gallon.
Dillon shakes his head, looking solemn. “No. They’re not letting anyone pump it into containers anymore. You had to have a license plate ending in an odd number today. Tomorrow’s a letter. The day after that, even numbers can get gas.”
“Can we get some from the truck? Siphon it?” I eye Opal, who’s busy trying to reach a pot from the rack. She’s too short, so I get one down for her. “Fill this with water.”
“I only have a quarter tank. I’ll need it to get back and forth to work. We’ll have to wait a couple days. Sorry,” Dillon says at my look of disappointment.
“You need a hot shower more than I do,” I tell him.
Opal wrinkles her nose. “Yeah. You stink. Bad.”
“Hey.” He swats at her, but she dances out of the way, the full pot of water splashing. This makes Dexter bark, and Opal shushes him.
“Hey, both of you. Don’t make a mess.” I sigh, leaning against the island. It’s been three days since we were able to run the generator. Three days without hot water or lights after dark. I want a real bath, not a five-minute splash in cold water, and I’m sure Dillon feels the same way.
“Where’s your mom and Mrs. Holly?” He opens the cupboard to pull out a bag of pretzels. The last we have, but there’s no point in trying to save them for something special. They’ll just go stale. He offers me one, and I take it.
“Upstairs. Mrs. Holly’s napping. Mom’s … sitting.” She’s been doing that a lot more. Sitting and staring out the window. Sometimes, her hands make the motions of knitting, even when she’s not. It makes me nervous.
Dillon knows what I mean. He kisses me while Opal watches. She scowls.
“Gross!”
“You do stink,” I say against his mouth.
Dillon laughs and sniffs his pits. “Yeah. Sorry. It was so hot again today. You guys don’t know how lucky you are. You come into this neighborhood, and it’s, like, ten degrees cooler ’cuz of the trees.”
It’s sweltering. “I’d still give anything for a hot shower.”
Dillon looks serious. “I have an idea. You ladies, finish dinner. I’m going out back.”
My brows raise at the “ladies, finish dinner” comment, but he’s ducking out the back door before I can say anything about it. I shake my head. Opal snorts softly.
“Boys,” she says.
“No kidding.”
I show her how to work the stove, which doesn’t have an automatic ignition and must be lit with a match. It’s a little nerve-wracking, watching her hold the flame so close to the slightly hissing port where the propane comes out, but though the burner flares, at first, a bit higher than normal, Opal does a great job. I let her do the other burner by herself, adjusting the amount of gas and lighting it. Then I show her how to settle the pot of water on one burner, the smaller pot of sauce on the other.
“Garlic bread.” I give the crackers a dubious look. “I’m not sure how we can toast them.”
If it were winter, we’d do it on the fire, but it’s way too hot to light one. At least inside. I smell smoke, though, and look out back to see Dillon fanning a curling column of smoke on a small pile of wood he’s set up next to the old swing set.
“Hot bath,” he says with a flourish, pointing to the old claw-foot tub my mom used to plant flowers in. He’s taken out all the dirt and rinsed it with the hose, which is spitting what I know will be icy water into the tub.
I blink. Then grin. Yep, he’s put the washtub full of clean water on top of the fire and set a couple of buckets beside it.
“It’ll be great for washing clothes, too,” he says. “I know you were complaining how hard it is to get stuff clean. And, Velvet …”
I look at him.
“I just wanted to say thanks for washing my clothes.” Dillon looks a little shy and totally cute. “I appreciate it.”
It makes up for the sidewise comment he made about dinner. “Someone has to do it.”
“Yeah, but … I know it’s hard and not fun.”
“Like picking up garbage is?” I laugh and kiss him, taking my time.
He puts his arms around me, holding me close. We stay that way for a minute or two while the tub fills and the water in the washtub starts to steam. His lips press into my hair.
“Maybe I should get you a long apron and one of those head-scarf things, pioneer woman,” he says into my ear, in a way that totally makes me shiver. “Little House in the Big Woods.”
I shiver again, but this time, not from his kisses. I pull away to look at him. “Stuff like this … we have to get better at it, Dillon. This homesteading stuff. Don’t we?”
He frowns a little, then nods. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Do you think we should try to move into town? Be honest.” I need him to tell the truth.
Dillon takes a minute to look up at the sky. Blue, with clouds overhead. No planes. I haven’t seen a plane fly over us in months, and I used to see the white lines of their passing every few days. He looks at me and shakes his head the tiniest bit.
“We’re better off here. Safer, I think.” He pauses to clear his throat. “In town, there’s no place to … hide.”
He means my mom. I think he means me, too. I don’t want to talk about that anymore, though. Instead, I point at the hot water.
“You go first while I finish helping Opal. Let me go grab you some soap and a towel.”
“Wifey,” Dillon murmurs, snagging me close for another kiss.
This time, I knuckle him in the bicep until he howls and dances out of reach. “Don’t get saucy with me, Béarnaise.”
It’s another thing my dad used to say, but this time it doesn’t make me laugh. I eye him. Dillon looks chastened, then grins.
“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry. Not quite. “But I like it, Velvet.”
I make a face. He looks serious. I roll my eyes.
“I mean it,” Dillon says softly. “I know it’s not what we’d be doing if things were different. But I like to think that maybe we’d have done it, anyway. Someday.”
I’m not sure what to say to that. Things aren’t different; they’re the way they are. But his words warm me more than the heat coming off the fire. Inside, I check on Opal, who’s stirring the spaghetti. She’s painted the saltines with olive oil and a sprinkling of garlic powder. Upstairs, Mrs. Holly’s stirring in her room, and my mom’s sitting by the window in hers with a magazine on her lap.
“Mom?”
She looks up. She’s looked at that magazine a hundred times. I guess it doesn’t matter. She smiles, her gaze a little distant, and I wonder again what it is she can actually think.
“Dinner soon, okay?”
She nods. In my bathroom, I grab a towel and bar of soap, taking a quick peek out the window to see Dillon stripping down by the tub. Blushing, which is silly, since it’s not like I saw anything but his bare back, I take everything out to him. He’s just settling into the water when I show up.
“How is it?”
“A little cold. Can you bring another bucket of hot water?”
I hand him the soap and hang the towel on the back of one of the deck chairs he’s pulled close to put his clothes on. I bring him a bucket of hot water, hissing a little as it splashes on the back of my hand. Averting my eyes, I hold it up.
“Watch your feet.”
Dillon pulls his knees to his chest. I pour in the hot water, which makes the level in the tub rise and spill over. He settles back with a sigh.
“Perfect.”
“I’ll go inside and check on dinner. It should be ready soon.” The sun’s not close to going down, but it has dropped behind the trees, making the deck nice and cool. “We’ll eat outside tonight.”
Dillon nods. “I’ll be done fast.”
“Take your time,” I tell him. “I intend to, when it’s my turn.”
Opal’s so proud about the dinner she made that I don’t care to criticize the fact that she let the pasta boil too long and it’s soggy, or that the sauce is a little burned. We set the table on the deck as Dillon, towel wrapped around his waist, goes inside to put on clean clothes. Opal adds a flower in a vase in the center. I pull out the pretty cloth napkins my mom always kept for special occasions—because, why not? Sure, I have to wash them, but the idea doesn’t seem like such a burden now that Dillon’s rigged up the washtub the way he has.
“Pretty,” my mom says when she sees the table.
Opal and I share a glance. Opal takes my mom’s hand to lead her to the table. “I made it, Mama.”
“Good girl. You’re a good girl,” my mom says. It’s the most words she’s spoken for a while, and it seems to tire her.
Mrs. Holly is equally impressed. “Oh, girls. What a nice dinner. Thank you.”
It is a nice dinner. It almost feels normal, sitting on the deck with my family, eating and laughing. The sun dips lower behind the trees, and the insects start to hum. Dexter perks up at the sound of rustling in the trees and bounds off into the backyard to go after whatever squirrels are settling down for the night.
“I never noticed how quiet it could be without the noise from the highway,” Mrs. Holly says as we all lounge with cups of sweet tea and the last of the cookies from one of the packages we scavenged.
I listen. She’s right. There always used to be a low, constant murmur coming from the highway that passes the front of the neighborhood. Even though our house is set about halfway toward the back of the development, maybe a mile away from the entrance, we still could hear the traffic. There’s nothing now but the rustle of the breeze in the leaves and Lucky’s soft nighttime clucking.
“Nice,” my mom says.
Mrs. Holly pats her hand. “Yes, Malinda. It’s very nice.”
“I’ll get the dishes, since you and Opal made dinner.” Dillon stands and stretches.
I stand, too. “I’m going to heat water for a bath, and you can grab some for the dishes, too.”
While they clear the table, I help Dillon with the water.
“Looks like we’re going to have to get a better system,” Dillon says as we use the hose to fill the washtub again.
The fire’s died down to hot coals, but that’s okay. I don’t want the water to boil, just get hot. I swirl it with my fingers and nod, thinking about the winter ahead. “We could dig a pit and line it with some of the bricks from the pile behind the shed, the ones my dad didn’t use for the front walk. Put the metal tub in it. We’ll just have to make sure we keep the fire fed and banked, right? That’s what they call it?”
“I think so.” He laughs gently. “Pioneer woman.”
“Pioneer man.” We share a grin.
“We can do this, you know, Velvet.” Dillon looks serious.
“Make a fire pit?”
He shakes his head, then nods. “Yes. That. But also everything else. We can survive this.”
“We make a good team.” It’s the truth. Dillon works hard to make sure our patchwork family can stay together. “You really think things are going to get worse?”
“Yes. The houses I pass on our route, so many of them are empty. We went past a house last week, and the front door was hanging open. It was still open the next time we passed it. People are being taken away, more and more all the time.”
“Or they’re running away.” I think of the soldiers defending the barrier. “If they can.”
Dillon frowns. “Velvet, look. I know you think we should run—”
“No.” I shake my head. “I know why you can’t. And I think about my mom, Mrs. Holly. Heck, Opal’s a trouper, but she’s still only eleven. I saw what the soldiers did to the people trying to get past them. And listening to what the Voice and Raven have been saying, I’m not even sure where we’d go. Everything’s a black zone around here for a hundred miles.”
For a moment, Dillon looks like he means to say something. Instead, he kisses me on the mouth quickly, then takes the bucket inside, leaving me to stare after him, with that warmth spreading through me again. I fill the tub with water from the hose, then add water from the washtub until the temperature’s good. The night air’s chilly enough that it feels good when the water’s a little too hot. I hiss when I get in, then let out a long, happy sigh.
Overhead, the stars are bright and sharp. They’ve always been visible here, but just as the noise from the highway never seemed loud until we didn’t hear it anymore, the same goes for the lights of civilization. They’re so much fainter now that the sky seems that much blacker. I don’t want to think about why so many lights have gone out, so I settle back into the tub and let the hot water soak away my aches. I soak until the water cools, which is a pretty long time because the claw-foot tub’s cast iron and holds the heat. I’m a little dizzy when I get out, and naked, I stand and let the night wind dry me.
Upstairs, I slip into bed, ready for sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. From his bed, just a couple of feet from mine, Dillon shuffles. His whisper tickles me in the darkness.
“Are you sorry you married me, Velvet?”
“No.”
I hear the smile in his voice as he turns onto his side, then the soft huff of his breath as he goes back to sleep. “Good …”
I haven’t quite managed to fall asleep, when clucking pries my eyes open. Blinking, I shake away the blurred edges of a dream, half convinced I’m imagining it. But, no, there it is again. The rapid rise of Lucky’s bok-bok-bok, then louder and louder.
I didn’t know chickens could scream.
I’m out of bed without a second thought. Dillon catches me at the sliding door in the kitchen, that’s how fast I ran down the stairs. He snags my T-shirt, but I’m already pushing open the plywood door and running out onto the deck.
“Velvet, wait!”
My bare feet sting with splinters and the cut of rocks and dead twigs as I run up the stairs and into the trees toward Lucky’s pen. Something is rattling the door to the dog kennel. It’s not a raccoon or a possum. It’s distinctly human shaped.
Dillon’s a few steps behind me when I shout and jump toward the figure trying to get at the hysterical hen. “Hey! Stop!”
There’s not enough light for me to see more than shadows, but a big one turns to me. A flash of light catches its eyes and what I think must be the gaping wetness of its mouth. It’s a man. The dog kennel door isn’t open, but the man’s fingers are caught in the wire mesh, and he’s still shaking it. That’s what’s making Lucky go crazy, that shaking.
“Velvet, get back!”
Suddenly, there are bouncing lights coming down the hill. Flashlights held by people running through the trees from the road above. Shouts. Black shapes, spreading out, lights flashing. Not regular soldiers—I catch a flash of white letters on black uniforms. Special unit.
“Get in the house now,” Dillon says into my ear, pulling me backward. “Get your mom. Find a place to hide. They’re after this guy, but they might be looking for others, too.”
I don’t argue as he puts himself between me and the Connie still struggling with the dog kennel. A beam of light cuts through the trees, highlighting what looks like ragged scrubs and bare, battered feet. A flash of wild red hair and a straggly beard.
Then Dillon’s shoving me back again, and I turn tail and run, grateful for the darkness that still shields me. Crashing and shouting follow me as I duck inside the house and race toward the stairs. I nearly run over my mom, who’s standing in the kitchen.
“Mom. We have to hide.”
She’s heading for the back door, but I snag her nightgown.
“Mom, now.”
I pull her into the basement, which is pitch-black. I’m sure we’re both going to tumble down the stairs and break our necks, but here’s a funny thing about learning to live without electricity—you get really good at finding your way around in the dark. We make it to the closet beneath the stairs, where we burrow under the pile of sheets and sleeping bags.
My mom’s hand slips into mine and squeezes tight. Footsteps pound on the floor upstairs. I hear voices, not shouting.
After forever has come and gone and come around again, Dillon’s voice eases through the darkness. “Velvet. They’re gone. You can come out.”
Mom and I struggle out of the hiding place. Dillon has a lantern covered with a dishcloth to keep the bright white light from hurting our eyes. Mom pats him gently.
“Gone,” she murmurs. “Sleep now.”
She’s calm. I’m not. I’m ready to jump out of my skin. Upstairs, she goes silently to bed while I pace in the kitchen, my hands shaking. I go to the sink and splash water on my face, but it doesn’t help.
“It’s okay,” Dillon says. “They only came inside to make sure we were all okay. They weren’t actually looking for other Connies. This time, anyway. They got him. You don’t have to worry.”
I turn to him with my face dripping. My T-shirt’s wet. So’s my hair. My teeth are chattering, though it’s heat that sweeps through me, not a chill. Dillon pulls me close.
I cling to him, my eyes shut tight against the memory of what I saw. The wild hair, the beard, the flash of light on bright blue eyes. It can’t be. It can’t.
“Dillon,” I say. “That Connie …”
“Shhh. They got him.”
I shake my head, unable to let go of him, but I force myself to look up at him. “No. You don’t understand. That Connie in the woods. I think it was my dad.”