Текст книги "The Release"
Автор книги: Shelbi Wescott
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Six days after The Release
Lucy wasn’t able to sleep that night. Her mind kept spinning around thinking of Salem and Grant out there in the world for the first time since the attack. She wondered if they found it cruel or peaceful, and while she hoped they had located her brother, she was not optimistic. But more than anything, she kept imagining that kiss, and she pondered whether or not she would be rescued. After waiting and wondering, she just assumed they had forsaken her for more romantic pursuits. It pained her to think of their closeness while she was so alone.
Her hand ached above her head and she could not find an ounce of comfort. Occasionally she dozed, but when her body pulled on the chain, she would jerk awake to the sound of metal rattling on metal. All through the night, her anger and pain increased, but Lucy didn’t cry. Five days ago, she wouldn’t have stopped crying, but she could not find it in herself to shed tears. Spencer watched her like a caged pet—balancing his interest with both fascination and indifference.
When Spencer attempted conversation with her, Lucy turned her face away from his and stared off at the beige office walls where pictures of former students had been taped up in equally numbered columns and rows. Tiny squares of smiling faces, painted and plucked, wearing brand new outfits, without a hair out of place. Lucy’s own senior photos were sitting at home, already distributed to her mother’s friends and distant relatives.
Spencer never wanted to talk about anything that made sense. Instead it seemed that he was excited just to hear himself talk to a human being at all, even if that person was his prisoner. He held court in front of her and recounted movie plots and stories of crazy students and he told her the details of teacher scandals—all of which might have interested her a few days ago, but not anymore.
After he realized it would be a perpetual one-way conversation, Spencer retreated to his office with his bottles and his pills. In no time at all, he was snoring. His rattling breath kept Lucy wide-eyed and awake until the wee hours of the morning.
When Spencer rose with the sun, he was slow, grumpy and suddenly silent, but otherwise fine. He fixed them both a breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage patties, and French toast sticks drowned in maple syrup from a collection of tiny plastic packets, which he opened for Lucy without so much as a good morning.
But even if he handled himself in virtual silence, Spencer abandoned his antagonistic banter. He didn’t have to be nice to her, but somehow Darla’s instructions were weighed with authority. They spent the morning like awkward houseguests—one not sure what to do with the other—even though the reality of her situation was never far from Lucy’s mind.
After hours of waiting, Darla was back. Right on time. Her four short knocks, beat, two knocks. The song and dance of raised guns, sliding bolts, mutual distrust, locking doors. When she returned, he seemed jittery with excitement, like a child on Christmas morning. His morning moodiness was lifted.
“Easy, easy,” Darla said. Her messenger bag was empty and light. She set it down on the table slowly and then kicked out a chair and sat down. Plates with the remnants of their breakfast were beside her, and Darla took her pointer finger and made lazy circles with the leftover syrup. Then she brought her finger to her tongue and licked the syrup off with a deliberate smack. Lucy had left a bite of sausage and Darla ate that too. If it bothered Spencer, he didn’t say. Instead, he watched her curiously and anxiously as he leaned against one of the walls, his gun at his side.
After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Enough. I’m waiting.”
“I’m about to honor your request.”
“I hope so. Or why are you here?”
“An unobtainable, rare, valuable product. For your own personal use, if you desire. Or for sale. I don’t care what you do with it once it leaves my hands.”
“My curiosity is piqued.”
“Sure, sure,” Darla waved him away with disdain. “Let’s set the ground rules. First, let her out of the cuffs.”
Spencer blinked. “I don’t know. She’ll bolt.”
“Let her out of the damn cuffs.”
“Tell me what you brought for—”
Darla pulled her firearm out of its holster like lightning and pointed it at Spencer; only her hand and arm had moved—the rest of her body had remained positioned calmly in the chair. “You’ll want what I’m selling and if you don’t then you lose the product and the girl.”
With Darla’s gun still pointed in his direction, Spencer bent down and unlocked one side of the handcuffs. Lucy’s hand fell into her lap. It was numb and sore, a red, raw indent surrounded her wrist and she cradled it gingerly against her body.
“Come over by me,” Darla instructed to Lucy. Whether or not she wanted to bolt, Lucy realized that fighting her request would be useless. So, Lucy slid herself over to Darla’s feet and then wobbled upward. Her legs ached.
Darla pulled her messenger bag down off the table and flipped it open. She reached inside and pulled out a brown box with a lid. Dropping her bag on the floor, she lifted the lid, and Lucy saw that the box was packed with packing balls. They fell to the floor as she reached in and grabbed a plastic baggie. She ripped open the top of the bag, held out her hand, and rolled out four vials.
“This better be good,” Spencer mumbled, clearly unimpressed.
“This,” Darla held the vials in her hand, “is a cure.”
Spencer looked at her uncomprehending. “A cure.” He ran the back of his hand over his nose and cracked his head to the side.
She rose to her feet and held the vials outward, but when Spencer took a step forward and tried to reach for them, she drew her hand back and waved her free pointer finger at him. “Ah-ah-ah…not so fast.”
“You mean…a vaccine.”
Darla smiled, her large, evenly spaced teeth flashing. “Now you’re catching on. I’m holding the only known and only available vaccine against the virus that was unleashed on our dearly departed Earth. Four vials. There is one for you for sure. I have three more…but we’ll discuss their fate next.”
She let the news settle and when Spencer opened his mouth, she continued, without waiting.
“I know you’re incredulous.”
“To say the least,” was his response.
“Of course. I waltz in here, purport to have some cure for a quick-killing tool of genocide used by bioterrorists. Hard pill to swallow?”
Spencer motioned for her to continue.
Following every word with growing anxiousness, Lucy slid her body down into Darla’s now empty chair and rested her elbows on the table.
Darla reached into her bag once again and pulled out a sheet of white computer paper and a digital camera. Still with the vials in her grip, she brandished the paper, like a gift, and placed it in Spencer’s hand. He shifted his rifle to his back and held on to the sheet with two hands, his brow furrowing as he read. “This could be forged,” he mumbled.
“Oh really? With my endless hours of available free time and design experience?”
“You could have traded for it. How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“It’s not a forgery.”
“It’s a scare tactic.”
“You’re right. It’s scary…but it’s no tactic.”
“What does it say?” Lucy said and she stood up.
With a sigh, Darla turned to acknowledge Lucy. The strange woman had deep, dark brown eyes with a tint of green along the edges and long, make-up-less lashes. “It’s a document from a government-run laboratory. Some timeline information about experiments involving the virus.”
“How did you get that?” Lucy asked. But Darla shot her a murderous look and Lucy lowered herself back down into her seat. “I was just asking,” she tried to add, but no one seemed to hear her.
“It says that most victims die between twenty-four hours to thirty-six hours after exposure. Quickly. Instant death. Ninety-eight percent of all…human subjects…did not last beyond that timeframe. Then there is a second wave. The outliers. After exhibiting no symptoms, no reaction to exposure at all…after one-hundred-forty-four hours to one-hundred-sixty hours…another two percent.”
“One-hundred percent death rate?” Lucy said and she looked up. She let that tidbit of truth wash over her. No one would survive this without that vaccine.
“Excellent math skills. Did our fine establishment help you with that ability?” Spencer shot a look upward and then back down at the camera. “So, what Darla,” he said her name with a sneer, “is trying to say is that we just entered a time period where we are all at risk again. Is that right?”
Darla shrugged.
“And how opportune…I mean, what a great fortune for me that she has the perfect recipe to save my life.” Spencer rolled his eyes. “I don’t buy it.”
“The way I see it,” Darla answered without missing a beat, “is that I can win this thing two ways. One, you realize I’m right, and you let me buy Lucy with the vaccine. Or two, you think I’m wrong and you die of the virus. I walk out of here with Lucy either way.”
“Then wait for me to die,” Spencer invited with a toothy smile.
“Happily,” Darla replied. “That was certainly my vote anyway. However, here is the problem.” She frowned. “I need some things. Some big things and unfortunately, you’re the only one I know who can get them for me.”
Lucy’s heart began beating ferociously. She didn’t want to interrupt and ruin Darla’s rehearsed dialogue, but she needed to know if she was in danger. She thought of Salem and Grant out there, outside, somewhere, not knowing that a second wave would soon hit them. Getting out of the school and finding them was key, even if she hoped that Darla’s dog-and-pony show was an act.
“That is an interesting predicament,” Spencer said, assuming his administrative tone, a cross between condescending and authoritative. “So many coincidences. I’m in danger today, but behold…you have just what I need.”
“And if you don’t give me what I need, then yes, you will die.”
Spencer debated, his eyes flashed. “So, what do you need?” he asked.
“Antibiotics. And a doctor.”
He laughed at her. “Those are no easy feats. What makes you even think I can do that?”
“Because if you don’t agree to it…you’ll die,” Darla answered.
“Right, I see. Well, I don’t have antibiotics right now,” he told her unapologetically. “And you think I can just call up a doctor? How exactly do you suppose I go about making that happen for you?”
Darla leaned in closer. “I know how this works. You need specific things and you put different items in the window to call the looters. The traders. The Raiders, like I call them. Right?”
He didn’t answer her.
“You do this for me and you live. The payment is handsome,” she continued.
“Darla the Great, peddling her magical elixirs, preying on fear and a sense of urgency. And of course you need the girl, but wait, if I don’t give you the other things you need you’ll let me die. A sham. I don’t believe you, so I will call your bluff. No girl, no antibiotics, no doctor. Let’s wait and see what happens. Do you need me to show you the door?”
“Are you done?” Darla asked, unmoving, and when Spencer failed to answer immediately, Darla nodded once. “Good.” She grabbed the digital camera and turned it on, its tiny ding indicating it was ready. She passed it to Spencer, who regarded the first picture with confusion and then disgust.
Lucy stood up and walked over so she could see the screen. Quickly, Spencer clicked through pictures. At first it was just pictures of dead rats in various stages of decay. In front of the rats, someone had labeled them: Day1, hour 2. And then as the rats disintegrated into fur and bone, Day 5, hour 10. But at some point the subjects changed and what Lucy saw—despite the horror of the past six days—made her gasp. She clasped a hand over her mouth and her eyes began to water. She hated what she was seeing, but she couldn’t look away.
Bodies. Real people. Dressed in paper-thin white robes. Men and women. Girls and boys. All ages, shapes, colors, nationalities. Dead. With signs. Day 2, hour 5. And on and on. Some subjects were shown alive. Day 1. Alive. Day 2. Alive. Some people held their signs in front of them without emotion, staring forward. Some of them had a hint of a smile on their lips. Lucy wondered if they knew what was happening to them; if they knew that they were going to die.
Sure enough, Darla’s clear assessment of the paper’s report rang true in pictures. Out of the people who lasted through the first phase, none of them survived Day 6.
Spencer finished the last photo, compelled to press the forward key until the first picture flashed back into view, and then he set the camera down at the table. His brusque manner had diminished and now he appeared pensive and, Lucy thought, afraid.
He opened his hand.
“Take the girl,” he stated and open and closed his palm.
“Wise choice,” Darla answered. “And—”
“I need two days for your other requirements.”
“Everyone will be dead in two days,” she replied.
“I understand,” Spencer said between his teeth. “Two days and all those vaccines. If you expect me to deliver you a doctor, I’m going to need a way to keep him or her alive and the people who assist me.”
“Deal. The vials are yours. Work fast. I’ll be back.”
Spencer turned his head to the side. “How do you know I won’t just take the vaccines and run?”
Darla smiled. “Because I’m giving you a chance at life. Even when you get me what I ask for, you will still owe me. I’m trusting that has to count for something.”
Then without waiting for a reply, she dropped the vials into Spencer’s outstretched hand. And as they rolled from her hand to his, Lucy noticed they were marked with long strips of masking tape. Each one was clearly labeled with a name: Galen, Malcolm, Monroe. And Harper.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The clean air hurt Lucy’s lungs at first. She breathed it in too deeply, too quickly, and her chest ached. She gulped for another breath of air and then another and soon she felt light-headed. With a hand placed firmly against her lower back, Darla led Lucy to a red bench outside the school and sat her down.
“Put your head between your knees. You’re hyperventilating.”
“Don’t…tell…me…what…I…am…doing…” Lucy replied between heavy breathing, her ribcage rising and falling.
“Fine,” she replied, nonplussed. “We don’t have long. It’s not wise to stay out in the open like this. Come on, stand up. You’re fine. “
“Give me a second.” Then Lucy raised her head and examined the woman standing before her. In the sunlight, Lucy could see that her skin was flawless and she was tan. Not the orange glow of Oregonian girls, but the deep golden browns of someone who developed a bronzed body over time. After a deep breath, Lucy looked straight at Darla and steeled herself up to ask the question she needed to ask.
“Those vials in there…with vaccine.”
“Let’s be careful here, Lucy,” Darla answered and she looked past her, into the parking lot, her eyes scanning the rows of cars with diligence.
“I need to know. Where did they come from? Why were my brothers’ and sister’s name on them…you have to tell me.”
“Sorry,” was the curt reply. “Those are questions you’ll have to ask later. I don’t have answers.”
“Liar,” Lucy muttered under her breath. She was seething. One night enduring Spencer’s craziness, handcuffed to a table, and the woman didn’t have the decency to give her a straight answer.
“Excuse me?”
“You know. You just told Spencer all of that stuff in there.”
“Come on, Lucy Larkspur King.” Darla said the name with a mix of kindness and amusement. “Let’s get going.” She put her hands on her hips. Then she took her thick black hair and tied it up into a spiky ponytail.
“Who are you?” Lucy asked. She tucked her hands up under her thighs and bounced her legs; the cement in the parking lot, still full of cars, was wet from the showers, but the clouds temporarily parted revealing blue sky surrounded by threatening, ominous dark gray rain clouds on the horizon.
“I already answered that. I’m Darla,” she replied, annoyed.
“You know what I’m asking.”
“Yes, I do. Well, a week ago I was a resident of Los Angeles, working as a wealth manager for a small capital management firm. But seeing as how all my clients are dead and there’s no more stock market and I’m pretty sure currency is pretty much invalid, I found myself unemployed. So, now I’m a Raider. Among other things.” Darla smirked. She wiped a stray hair out of her eyes and then put her hand back on her hips, standing with a wide stance above Lucy, her presence large and assuming, invading Lucy’s personal space.
“I heard you use that word in the office. What’s a Raider?”
“It’s a term I made up.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Lucy looked around.
“Professional looter. Raiding people’s houses for items of perceived value to trade for other items of perceived value. In less than one week after the annihilation of mankind, it didn’t take much longer than twelve hours to set up a pretty intricate web of black market trading. Although, I suppose it’s not a black market if it’s the only market. Principal Spencer here…he knew he had it made.”
“Which is why he didn’t want anyone near the school.”
“You did the right thing by staying at the school. It’s not pleasant out here,” Darla added and she looked down on Lucy with mothering warmth, her affirmation the vocal equivalent of a pat on the back. “The first three days were the worst. Killing people who came on your property without so much as a pause to see if they were armed or hurting. Violence, disaster. You know the basics.”
“My brother sent you?” Lucy asked.
“He did.”
“He’s alive.” Lucy sighed and smiled.
“He is.”
“Is he the one who needs a doctor?”
“I don’t think I need to answer any more questions right now.”
“Am I going to die?”
Darla paused and cocked her head to the side. She looked genuinely perplexed and then a wave of realization passed over her face. “You’re fine sweetie. You’re not in danger.”
Lucy let out a small hum. “Yeah, people keep saying that to me. So far I’m not convinced.”
“You aren’t going to die.”
She thought of the vials and the fact that her name was not among them. But what did any of it mean? The questions seemed too big and unanswerable, and Lucy kept breathing deeply, trying to calm the heaviness in her chest.
“That’s all I know, so you’ll just have to live with that.” Darla reached into her messenger back and pulled out a pair of canvas slip-on shoes that Lucy immediately recognized as her own.
“I noticed you were without footwear yesterday. You own a surprising number of shoes…none of which are great for walking. So, what, the King family doesn’t like to hike? Whatever, we’ll make do.”
Lucy mumbled a thank you as she slipped the shoes on her feet.
“Come on. Follow me.”
Darla moved toward the bushes, pushing long branches with leaves out of the way and ducking under the greenery. A twig caught in Lucy’s hair and as she moved forward it tugged on her scalp; she batted it away. Then something wispy and thin brushed her cheek and it felt like the remnants of a spider’s web. She shivered and ran her hand over the tingling skin. She hadn’t given much thought to the survival of all living creatures. Did spiders even still exist now or had they also been banished from the earth?
Lucy kept pace with her and matched her step for step. Their feet crunched along gravel. They passed some school storage buildings and one of the doors was wide open, the glass broken on the windows. Next they crawled through an open space in a fence and found themselves in the bus barn—fifteen buses parked for service in their usual spaces, bright and yellow. Darla put out her hand and stopped Lucy, then drew her gun up, flipping the safety off.
When Lucy opened her mouth to ask something, Darla snapped her fingers and motioned for Lucy to stay quiet.
With every step, Darla would pause.
Then even Lucy heard the crunch of gravel that continued after they had paused. Behind them were a set of secondary steps trying to match their own, but the attempt was imperfect. While Darla turned her head around one of the buses, her back flush against the exit door, Lucy felt someone grab her arm and she shrieked loudly. Darla spun back, aiming her weapon.
“Put down your gun!” Darla called. “I’m a better shot. I can already tell just by looking at you.”
Lucy staggered forward and pulled out of the person’s grasp. Then she turned to see Grant’s sallow face as he stared down Darla. Grant stood there, holding Lucy’s revolver in his hand and his whole arm was shaking.
“Let our friend go,” he commanded, his voice breaking. The threat of using a weapon seemed to be making Grant physically ill. Sweat beads formed on his forehead. Lucy wanted to go over and hug him. Her heart was overjoyed at his act of bravery on her behalf, but she saw the glimmer of agitation on Darla’s face and realized that Grant might be in real danger.
Lucy ran and stood between them with her arms outstretched. She spotted Salem hovering next to another one of the buses and she motioned for Lucy to run to her.
“Stop!” Lucy yelled. “Just stop! Both of you. Grant…it’s okay…this is Darla. Ethan sent her. Darla, these are my friends. Don’t shoot them.”
“You know these kids?” Darla asked and she lifted her hands up in a show of faith and holstered her gun. “You have no idea how close I came to just shooting you. Maybe a warning next time.”
Lucy dropped her hands and placed them on her knees, taking a moment. “How does a wealth manager know so much about guns?” she asked.
“Why shouldn’t a wealth manager know so much about guns?” Darla replied.
“Spencer?” Grant asked, looking relieved to lower his gun too. And the moment the scene settled and everything seemed safe, Salem emerged and rushed over to Lucy, wrapping her arms around Lucy’s shoulders and squeezing her tightly.
“He let me go,” Lucy said, her breath constricted from Salem’s monster embrace.
“We’ve been so worried,” Salem said. “We spent all night trying to get back into the building.”
“Fort Knox that place,” Grant said.
Lucy wanted to believe it was true. She searched their faces and saw their exhaustion and worry and knew that they were being honest. Her rambling daydreams of Grant and Salem leaving her with Spencer so they could kiss unencumbered were unfounded. She let out a relieved sigh.
Darla cleared her throat. A noisy, exaggerated sound of frustration. She motioned for them to wrap up their hellos and hugs and then turned back to her original task at-hand, clearing the bus barn, taking glimpses of the undercarriage, peering into the windowed exit doors. The friends walked together after her and Salem grabbed Lucy’s hand as they walked.
“I’m sorry we left you—”
With a small squeeze, Lucy smiled. “You didn’t have a choice. He would’ve shot you. I’m certain of it.”
Salem noticed the raw cut in Lucy’s right wrist and she brought it up to inspect it. “What did he do to you?”
They heard Darla’s feet speeding toward them across the gravel and when Lucy looked up, she saw the dark haired woman bearing down on them, her face contorted with rage and fear. “Shut up,” she seethed. “Seriously. The chummy reunion dialogue can wait until we’re inside somewhere. Safe.”
Grant stopped walking and tilted his head at Darla, blinking. “Why are you paranoid?”
“Where’ve you been the last week?” Darla asked. “That’s right. Holed up in the school. With water, right? Food? Your basic needs were met that entire time. So whatever perceived hardship you think you might have experienced? No. You don’t know what’s going on out here.”
Salem bristled at Darla’s tone and let go of Lucy’s hand. She took a small step forward and raised her shoulders. “We’ve been outside for twenty-four hours…and if you haven’t noticed…there isn’t ANYONE LEFT.” Salem yelled, her voice echoing down the street and carrying into the abandoned houses and buildings that surrounded them.
No one moved for a long second and then Darla leaned in closer to Salem’s face, she lowered her voice. “This corridor is used for people like me…making a beeline to that school to trade with your former principal. You’re right. There’s hardly anyone left. But those that decided to survive by shooting you, taking your little bag…with your last little bit of water…they’ll be around here. You want to yell? Yell. But when they come, I’m not saving you from them. Not even if you beg me.”
“Fine,” Grant replied, not harshly. He looked at Darla and raised his hands in surrender. “So, you’re the boss.”
“I’m the boss?”
“You’ll get us somewhere safe?”
Darla shook her head. “No. I have one task…to get Lucy back to her own house…back to Ethan. You two,” she pointed to both Salem and then Grant, “have nothing to do with this. But if you’re tagging along? Shut up.”
The walk was serpentine. It might have taken an hour to walk straight from the high school to Lucy’s house, but Darla kept them off the main streets. Without a word, they cut through yards and parks and crouched along abandoned cars in the strip mall. The shop windows were nonexistent, reduced to piles of broken glass and the furniture from the stores had been tossed outward into the parking lot. There were bodies everywhere: Against the steering wheels of cars, across the sidewalks, inside the stores. And everything was quiet. Their footsteps echoed down the covered corridor as they passed by a shoe store, a fabric store, and a clothing boutique. Darla nodded for them to head into a darkened drug store.
“No power,” Darla warned. “From this grid and upward. Most of Oregon is out of power actually. Just a few zones left. I can’t tell you why they’re hanging on.”
“Is there power at my house?” Lucy asked and Darla shook her head no.
“Power has been out there for a few days now.”
The drug store was stripped clean. Shelves emptied of all essential and nonessential items. Even the rack of greeting cards was empty.
“Why would someone steal a congratulations on your bar mitzvah card?” Grant asked.
“To burn,” was Darla’s reply and Lucy’s mind wandered to the book in her backpack. Then she cringed. She had left the backpack in Spencer’s office. It seemed that leaving things at school was becoming a theme. This time, however, she would let it stay there.
They turned down an aisle and stepped over a man’s decimated body. Lucy noticed that his hand was curled in a perfect circle around an imaginary object and she couldn’t help but wonder if someone had actually pried a medicine bottle out of his cold dead hands. It was an expression she never imagined having a literal use and yet there was the evidence that nothing was sacred in the wreckage.
Darla, with the ease and speed of someone familiar with the landscape, pushed her way through two thick double-doors leading into a cavernous and nearly pitch black storage room. The back of the store was windowless and so they might have been blinded by the darkness, but the loading dock had been left open and the entire area was washed in natural light. They made their way down the cement stairs and found themselves on the back part of the strip mall.
Beyond the mall was an open field. A fence warned trespassers that the land was a nature preserve and violators would be prosecuted, but Darla held a flap of cut chain-link back and let the kids climb through one by one before following herself, shutting the small fence back into place with a loud clink. The field was muddy and wet and Lucy’s canvas shoes kept getting stuck. She slurped her way forward, yanking one foot and then the other. When they reached the other end of the field, they were at a wooden fence leading to a soggy backyard.
Darla marched them over the wet grass and through a gently rocking swing set. Lucy let her hand linger on the chain of the swing and then let her fingers slide down. Grant and Salem were trudging along behind; Salem held her hands around her stomach and her eyes watered, Grant kept a hand poised to catch her if she fell. They were out of breath and weak, but they did not complain.
The next backyard was littered with rusting lawn furniture and several green plastic garbage cans filled with yard debris. The house sported an abandoned porch– a product of owners who had decided their home didn’t need attention long before the world decided to crash down around them. In months, maybe years, the houses around this one would fall into the same sad state of disrepair. What had once been an eyesore to the manicured lawns and flower-basket neighbors was now just one more empty house.
Peering through the unwashed windows, Darla motioned for them to join her. Then she moved to the door, grabbed the handle and twisted it slowly.
“Probably empty,” she said, as if she were a bloodhound, and she swung the door open wider and motioned for Grant, Lucy and Salem to follow. “Let’s go. Inside,” she instructed like they were half-cognizant toddlers.
“We’re going inside? Why?” Lucy asked in a hushed voice as she stepped on the porch.
“To sit,” Darla said. “To watch,” she nodded toward the front of the house. “To wait.”
“Watch and wait for what?” Grant asked.
“For what and for whom,” she answered ambiguously, and then took three giants steps into the house, passing through a small mud room, filled from top to bottom with cardboard boxes, black sharpie labeling them—tax papers, kitchen utensils, Christmas décor—all in flowery, capital letters, script.
They entered after her and followed her into a kitchen. The blinds were drawn shut and the house was dim and stale. Lucy allowed her hand to travel over items dumped on to a wrinkled red and white gingham tablecloth. Among the debris, a dog collar. The tag read: Einstein. Lucy held the collar for a long time before setting it back down in the exact place it had been before. Each house was now a graveyard and its evidence of loss and grief was so clear and profound.
“Are they home?” Grant asked. He was standing near the counter. He reached for a coffee mug and picked it up, the coffee sloshed around—it had not been around long enough to mold.
Darla cracked her neck. “No one’s ever home,” she replied. “No one will ever be home.” She opened the fridge and the front of the kitchen flooded with light spilled from the appliance. She tossed aside cardboard boxes filled with leftovers, mushy vegetables, and went straight to a can of soda, popping open the tab and sucking the whole thing down in gulps. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she crushed the can and dropped it to the floor where it clattered and rocked; the echoes of tin on linoleum reverberated throughout the house.
