A H.E.R.O.S PROJECT 12

6. Free drinks

As Tristian drives us off Grandpa's front yard in her sporty black and red Mini Cooper, the fire alarm beeps for the third time. Richie partially caught his chair on fire. His excuse was that Lou distracted him when she started barking. Then she bit his pants. He dropped his mini torch on the floor; the rest was history.

Grandpa is going to kill us.

I set my phone on vibrate and tuck it into my skirt pocket. In case Richie calls me, I can answer quickly.

"He'll be fine," Tris assures me, backing out of the driveway and blasting rap music. Daniel LoverBoy's newest song, "Take me to the past," plays on the radio. "He's a smart kid. He has a phone. Your golden retriever is as smart as a goddamn five-year-old. What's the worst that can happen?"

I don't know; the house could catch on fire. Richie could catch on fire. Lou could catch on fire. The woods could catch on fire. I'm grounded until I'm an old lady, and I, too, catch on fire because Richie is such a klutz.

I sigh, looking at Grandpa's property, at all the tall pine and oak trees shading the dirt road from the moonlight above.

Argus is smaller than Eugenes. Eugenes isn't wholly concrete and buildings, but most of it is. We have an outdoor mall and grocery stores; there is plenty of restaurants, smoothie joints, and my favorite coffee shop Starcash. But here in the mountainous evergreen Argus, where Grandpa refuses to leave, it's like living in another world. There are barely any houses in Argus; neighbors are too far apart to be an inconvenience and plenty of trees. You can't turn your head without bumping into bark and vegetation, which is fine if you're into that kind of stuff, nature. Not me. I like sidewalks and electricity, interacting with other human beings, not Ol'Jimmy Boy the caveman spectacular.

"Girl, why does your Grandpa live out here? Argus gives me the creeps," Tris shivers as we drive past Ol'Jimmy Boy's house on the ridge. I don't know what's wrong with that man—Ol'Jimmy Boy lives in a teepee made of oxidized corrugated metal sheets. There's a single round window on his teepee house right above a makeshift wood door Ol'Jimmy Boy will peek through before you knock. Garbage and weathered truck tires shape his front lawn. Suppose you can call it a lawn. The only plants in his yard are these weird-looking purple and white and gold flowers and moss. And don't try to step on his lawn too. Scattered rusty oil cans, machine bolts, and metal scraps lay hidden; if you're not careful, you can accidentally step on them. Thanks to Ol'Jimmy Boy's inability to throw away his trash, I've poked holes in my shoes while walking to his front door.

Ol'Jimmy Boy's house lights are on, and no doubt, he's scanning the woods for drunk college kids looking for a spot to drink and have unprotected sex. They must keep multiplying to save the human race from extinction, and there's no better place to procreate than in the woods.

I shrug, "Grandpa Solomon was a military baby. My dad served, Grandpa served, and his father did. Grandpa thinks living in Argus will stop the government from spying on him." Tristian tsks, turning down the radio. "Probably why he's so uptight about owning guns and being prepared for the end of the world. Being in the military did something to him, and he can't get over it."

"So badass. I wish my Grandpa did junk like that."

"What? Stockpile for the apocalypse, treat you like a soldier, always paranoid? I'll take a boring grey-haired grandpa any day of the week."

Grandpa has this twisted ideology about always being ready for the end since he says he got to see it, whatever that means. A bunker underneath his house stays dormant with necessities for the four of us: Grandpa, Mom, Richie, and me, to live on for at least a decade. Grandpa buys canned food and toilet paper if he goes to the grocery store instead of hunting. He let me decide which canned fruit I wanted to eat the first year of our future apocalyptic vacation.