The Cure for Sleeping

Chapter One

I've been alone for twenty-three days, two hours and forty-six minutes, give or take.

I try not to dwell on it. There's a routine to stick to: wake up, give myself five minutes to mourn, and then move.

With a full backpack slung over my shoulders, it's harder climbing out of the apartment than it was getting in. Not my apartment, of course, but it was someone's –there are pictures of a young couple up on the walls, a few years older than me. There was a beagle in a few of the pictures and an empty food dish in the kitchen. I hope they took him with them.

My feet scrapple for purchase against the dirty grey bricks. I execute a graceful jump-fall combination –curtesy of three years of gymnastics– and hit the pavement first on my feet, then on my butt. A stray cat yowls further in the alley, sprinting past me like its tail is on fire. I scowl at it. I wasn't that loud.

I edge my way to the alley's mouth, over pieces of trash and hunks of goo that I choose not to think about. Following the path of the cat, I stick my head out into the street. It's never too late for caution, even after my landing fiasco.

The street is as close to clear as it gets these days. Which means that I there's nothing moving, at the least. Cars flood the roads like debris after a storm, building up a maze pocketed with hiding places. People panicked during the outbreak, and when traffic built up, most chose to just abandon their cars and run. There's broken windows everywhere, glass blanketing the road like snow. Usually, this is the worst place to be. Stepping out onto the street is just asking to be pulled into a car by hungry things, or shot down by someone hoping to steal supplies from my corpse.

Today, however, I'm out of food. And, seeing how pizza delivery is no longer an option, I have to go get it. Life's hard like that.

I duck low to the ground and sprint onto the asphalt. Weaving between cars is smarter than parading down the street; I'm a smaller target here. The sunlight reflected off hundreds of abandoned cars is blinding. I have to squint against it, eyes almost shut as I crawl forward.

Occasionally, I peek into cars as I pass. Most are locked, and since when people left they kept the habit of taking their keys, they're no good to me. I can still see things lying on upholstered seats, though. iPhones, mainly. That makes me smile. Maybe we're not so addicted after all.

Glass shatters to my right, as sudden as a shot. I freeze, pressed up against the car's window. I hear a crunch as something steps through it. Shit.

Slowly, carefully, I crouch down. I mold myself to the hot metal, sliding down until I'm huddled next to a tire. This is all I can think to do, all I've been told.

Make yourself small, stay quiet, and pray to god that they don't hear you.

I focus on keeping my breathing calm, steady. My hand flies to my chest and presses against the tight ball of my lungs. I will not panic.

Then, shouting. I forget about breathing. The sound is only a few cars away, but... they don't shout. There's growling, yes, and lots of it, but I've never heard this. My brow scrunches and I uncurl, sweat sticking my shirt to the car. Crawling over shards of glass in jeans and with bare hands is no mere feat, but I reach the hood of a black Mercedes. I rise into a crouch. My fingers wrap around the grill and I peek over.

A group of men, all around college age, are walking up the sidewalk. Strutting is a better word for it. Prowling is probably the best. One of them has a bottle in his hand, a fat thing with amber liquid sloshing inside. He raises it to his lips like a battle-horn, swallows once, and passes it to his red-haired neighbour, who tips his head back and gulps. He lets out a hoot, loud enough to send pigeons into the air and shakes his head like a dog. He passes the bottle along.

My stomach clenches. They're the sort of people who either get you killed, or kill you. I shrug off my bag and shove it under the Mercedes, fabric catching on glass. I'm about to roll under myself, glass shards or no, when I hear it. My back straightens reflexively.

A wolf whistle. A freaking wolf whistle.

"Whatcha doing over there, darlin'?" The dog drawls. He shoves the bottle at his friend, who winks at me and raises the scotch in a toast.

"Minding my own business. Maybe you should try it," I keep my eyes averted. His friends laugh, and more birds take off.

The boy's flushed face grows purple and he takes a step forward. "That's how you're going to play it? Maybe I should try you instead."

I still against the car. This, this is why I have kept to myself for weeks. A group of bored men stumble upon a girl and think they've hit the jackpot. The dog looks like he's been at the scotch all morning, swaying as he walks. Even drunk, he would be strong enough to keep hold if he caught me. The group grin at each other, straight teeth stained with threats.

I'll be damned if I make this easy for them. Without a word, I scoop up my bag, turn on my heel, and run.