Page 9

I wake up the next morning when the bed jiggles.

It must be Lance. My little brother likes to sneak into my room and climb into bed with me on weekends and holidays.

We’ll plot to convince our parents to take us to a movie or drive out to the closest city big enough to have a toy store.

He’ll ask me questions about how the house walls are strong enough to hold up the roof and who would win if a gorilla and rhinoceros got in a fight.

Then we’ll go downstairs in our pajamas when Dad calls out that breakfast is ready.

We’ll eat pancakes and crispy bacon, and Mom will remind us to finish our orange juice because we need the Vitamin C.

That’s what’s going to happen this morning. I know it with a certainty that permeates my body. I can almost smell the bacon and feel the weight of my five-year-old brother shift my mattress.

And I’m safe .

In that moment, I’m completely safe. Young and trusting and deeply loved and safe .

Then the familiar scent of Deck hits my nose, and it’s all ripped away from me again.

Because I’m not nine years old in our family home with parents and a brother and a future. Each of them has been murdered by whatever heartless force controls our reality.

The loss hurts so much that I shake. Squeeze my eyes shut to hold back tears. Because for a moment sweet little Lance was close enough to touch, but now he’s torn away from me again.

It’s dark in the room. Deck must have accidentally woken me up when he climbed down from the top bunk. Even though I haven’t made a sound or identifiable motion, he jerks and turns around, leaning over to peer in at my bed.

Maybe he picked up vibes.

I’m embarrassed by my breakdown and don’t want anyone to know about it, so I lie completely still, eyes closed. He won’t be able to tell I’m awake in the dark room like this. No one could.

He reaches out to put a light hand on my arm.

“I’m fine,” I tell him since there’s clearly no sense in trying to deceive him even in the dark. “Just woke up thinking I was back home. With my little brother. And I’m…” My voice breaks. “I’m not.”

His position bent over like that, extending an arm under the top bunk to reach me, has got to be uncomfortable, but he holds it for a minute. Speaking with nothing but the light touch of his hand.

For no good reason, it makes me feel better. A little less alone.

I wish I knew what he was thinking. His lack of speech doesn’t bother me—it simply feels like him —but it’s so hard to know what’s going on in his mind if he can’t put it into words.

If only there was a way to more clearly communicate with him.

Maybe he senses that I’ve recovered from my small emotional collapse because he straightens up and withdraws, leaning down to pick up yesterday’s clothes from the floor where he dropped them.

My eyes have adjusted to the darkness, so I can see the bulk of his strong body.

Outside, he sleeps in his clothes, but because we’re more secure here, he took them off last night.

He’s only wearing his boxers, and the sight of his tight ass and the sculpted contours of his thigh muscles as they stretch gives me that weird clench below my belly again.

It’s not lust as I understand it, although everything about his body right now is attractive. It’s deeper than that. Some sort of possessive entitlement. It’s disturbing.

He’s about to pull on his jeans when I stop him.

“Wait, Deck. You can’t put those jeans on. The whole back of them is caked in mud.”

He straightens up with a jerk and turns, his jeans hanging down from one hand .

I sit up. “I’ll wash them for you. I was going to do mine today anyway, so I’ll do your stuff with them.”

He stands still, frowning down at me.

“It won’t be any trouble.” To push him past his reluctance, I add, “It’s really for my benefit. Since you insist on following me around, it will be nicer if your clothes don’t stink quite so much.”

That does it. His shoulders shake a few times in a silent chuckle. He reaches over to turn on the flashlight he was using last night. It illuminates the room with a blueish, eerie glow.

I slept in the loose knit dress, and I have to pull it down as I slide out of the lower bunk since it gets hiked up around my hips.

Deck’s expression changes, and he gestures out the window.

“I know it’s early, but I’m wide-awake. I might as well get up and see if they need help in the kitchen. But first give me as many of your dirty clothes as you can without going around naked, and I’ll wash them with mine later when the sun comes up.”

He’s gotten over his hesitation, so together we collect all his extra clothes except the cargo trousers and T-shirt he puts on. I add my clothes to the pile and leave them on the floor. I remember seeing an old laundry basket in a closet somewhere. I’ll grab it later to haul them down.

Deck is about to stuff his feet into his hiking boots when I sit down on the edge of my bunk and pat the mattress beside me. Frowning in confusion, he sits where I indicate, having to fold his body and lean forward to avoid banging against the top bunk.

“How would you feel about learning sign language?” I ask him before I lose the courage.

His brown eyes widen slightly.

“It would be easier for you to tell me things,” I explain. “It’s fine if you don’t want to. But it could just be with me. I doubt most of the others even know American Sign Language. You could use it only with me. If you want.”

He sits very still for a minute. Then very slowly he nods.

Relieved and strangely gratified, I beam at him. Then I start by showing him the signs for parts of the body. Feet. Legs. Stomach. Chest. Shoulders. Arms. Hands. Head. Face. Hair.

He picks them up quickly, but then he nods toward the door of the room.

Maybe he got rounded up for a guard shift this morning. Or maybe he just needs to go to the bathroom. I let him go.

If he can learn ASL, maybe eventually he’ll be able to tell me.

I help out in the kitchen with breakfast. By the time everything is cleaned up, it’s midmorning, so I find that laundry basket and put Deck’s and my clothes in it to carry outside.

There were some barrels and tubs in the side yard to catch rainwater, and using those will be easier than pumping all that water from the well or managing down by the creek where there’s as much chance of getting the clothes dirtier as cleaner.

As I’m passing an open door on the hallway, I pause when Logan appears. It’s the smallest bedroom on the third floor aside from our tiny turret room.

“Everything okay?” he asks, giving me a quick once-over in that efficient manner that characterizes him. Like he’s checking for issues rather than personally concerned.

“Yeah. I’m just doing some laundry.” Without thinking through the offer, I add, “You want me to wash any of your clothes?”

Logan starts to turn around, as if his first instinct is to accept the offer and grab some dirty clothes, but he pauses mid-rotation. “You sure?” he asks, eyeing me closely. “It’s not required.”

“I know. But I’m doing laundry anyway, and I don’t mind some extra. These are Deck’s and mine, and they don’t even fill the basket halfway.”

Logan nods, unsmiling as he walks farther back into his room and collects several pieces of his clothing, adding them to my basket. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“No worries. I don’t have any duties today anyway, so I might as well get something useful done.”

When I’ve got the clothes outside, I pick out the best two tubs to use. Then I walk back inside and search the pantry for some soap and stumble across an old-fashioned washboard.

I’ve never used one before, but people made do with them for centuries. Surely this contraption will get the clothes cleaner than scrubbing them with my hands. I haul that out with an old bottle of dish soap, which is the closest I can find to laundry detergent.

I start on one of my shirts, getting it wet, soaping it up, and then experimenting with the washboard.

Whenever I’ve seen one used in historical movies, the person just rubbed the fabric up and down over the ridges of the board.

So that’s what I do, trying a few times until it feels like I get it right and surprised by how clean the shirt gets from this method.

I rinse it off in the other tub, wring it out, and then put it back into the empty laundry basket. I’ll need to hang up the wet clothes on the clothesline, but it’s on the other side of the yard, so I’ll wait until I’ve done all the washing first.

It’s harder work than I would have expected, and my back and shoulders are feeling it when I’m on the last couple of pieces—two pairs of Deck’s boxers. I’m so focused on the scrubbing that I don’t notice that someone comes over until a voice says, “Hi, Lilah. Can you do me a huge favor?”

I jerk in surprise and then force my lips into the shape of a smile as I look up at Trisha.

I swear I could have predicted it. She’s giving me her sweetest smile and holding an armful of clothes. I don’t respond. Just wait for her to say it .

“Could you wash my clothes while you’re in the zone? I’d do my own, but my poor leg is too injured. And it’s been so long since they’ve been washed. Pretty please? Logan said it would be okay.”

If Logan said anything of the kind, it would have been that it was okay for her to ask me. There’s no way in the world Logan volunteered me to wash someone else’s laundry. Personal duties are handled personally. That’s one of his rules. He even hesitated before letting me do his own clothes.

He did not tell Trisha I would do her laundry.

I’m tempted to ignore her and start scrubbing again without even giving her an answer, but there’s this tiny twinge of guilt at the back of my mind.

That I’m judging her unfairly. That I dislike her for no real reason.

That I’ve let all the bitterness simmering inside me get channeled toward her as a target when she’s done nothing to deserve it.

And that a good person wouldn’t act that way.

I’ve always thought of myself as a good person. Despite everything, that’s still who I want to be.

So I nod and look back at Deck’s soapy boxers. “I’ll do them this one time, but after this you’ll have to do your own. With Logan, we all handle our own business. Everyone understands that.”

“I do understand. Believe me. My leg just hurts so bad. I really appreciate your help. You’re the sweetest thing.”

If I needed any confirmation that she’s not being sincere, it’s that final claim. I think I’m decent. And I try to be brave and generous and helpful. I might even be warm under the right circumstances.

But I’m not sweet .

I’m nothing even close to sweet.

Trisha dumps her pile of dirty stuff into the basket of damp clothes I’ve just cleaned.

I give her a casual “Sure” as I quickly pull her stuff out of the basket and drop it onto the ground. It’s completely irrational—even I can admit that much—but I don’t want her dirty clothes to contaminate my clean ones. Or Deck’s. Or even Logan’s.

She thanks me with a saccharine edge that makes me grit my teeth, and I’m hoping that she’ll leave me alone now. But she doesn’t.

She lowers herself to sit on an overturned terra-cotta planter. It looks like she’s getting ready for a long, juicy chat. I know I’m right when she says, “So tell me about Logan.”

I wring out Deck’s boxers and spread them neatly on top of the pile in the basket. “What about him?”

“Anything. What’s his story? Is he with anyone?”

Of course that’s what she wants to know. His romantic status.

There were always girls like her back in high school and college.

Ones who pretended to be friends with other girls but whose whole goal was to claim the best guy.

So all conversation was focused on gossip, and even the smallest decisions were motivated by getting her closer to whoever her target was.

I was burned by girls like that multiple times—assuming they really wanted to be friends but finding out soon enough that they would throw me into the trash at the first opportunity to win an advantage with a guy.

It’s a queasy kind of déjà vu. I might as well be back in high school with a girl who is pretending to have a conversation with me but who really has her eyes on the captain of the football team the entire time.

I have absolutely no romantic or sexual interest in Logan—any more than he has in me—but I feel defensive for him anyway. He deserves better than Trisha.

“I don’t know that much about him,” I say blandly. “He’s a private person.”

“So he doesn’t have a woman?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” I’m not meeting her eyes because I’m not sure I could hide my annoyance.

“He’s too old for me, but he’s still damn sexy. And I like a man in charge.”

She would. Just the power itself is probably what attracts her most.

“But he’s not as big as Deck. What about him?”

I’ve been scrubbing one of her shirts against the washboard, but I halt abruptly, looking down at my own hands. “What about him?”

“What’s his story?”

“Same as the rest of us. Trying to survive after everything went to hell.”

“He needs to shave and cut his hair, but if he did that, he’d be superhot. And there’s something about a man whose hands can span your waist. Or your ass.” She makes a throaty sound of approval .

Clenching my jaw, I scrub and scrub. And scrub and scrub.

She might not possess the deepest intellect, but she’s sharp, and she obviously sees something in my reaction. “He’s not your man, is he? Someone said you two weren’t together.”

“We’re not together like that.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I had a go?”

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

It’s a wonder I’m not shredding the shirt into pieces, working out my suppressed aggression on it.

“It’s not my business. You can do whatever you want.”

“Okay, good. I was just checking. I want us to be friends.”

“Of course.”

To my relief, she gets up to leave after that.

As I finish washing her clothes, I blow out my resentment. I didn’t understand it back in school, and I don’t understand it now.

So many things are central in life. So many things are life and death. So many things matter in all the deepest ways.

Why can some women—even in an apocalypse—see nothing of worth except snagging their next boyfriend?