I don't know when morning actually arrives due to the lack of windows, but I wake to Emmie's voice as she attempts to get Travis's attention, who's sound asleep below her and out of reach. I take it upon myself to get up and help her.
I scoot out of bed, let the ache of my feet set in, and move over to her bedside in the darkness. "Hey, Emmie," I whisper. She holds her breath, but I encourage her to grab onto me so I can lift her down. "Let him sleep."
She doesn't speak, but I feel her hands crawl up my arms, so I scoop her right up and set her on the ground. Keeping hold of her hand, I lead her to the kitchen and switch on a lamp at the little table for some light.
After she sits, I turn to the cabinets and scan the food options. For breakfast, I undo the top of a can of peaches, grab two plastic forks from the drawer, and go join her. As my hunger hits me, I stab away at as many juicy slices as I can and shove them into my mouth, savoring every sweet bite.
Emmie doesn't budge in her chair and sits quietly, not even bothering to pick up the fork.
"Aren't you going to have some?" I ask, and pause my binge eating episode to listen to her answer.
She shakes her head, but something about the minimal furrow of her brow tells me she wants some. So I smile at her innocent brown eyes and say, "You know, breakfast is the most important meal of the whole day?"
Her eyes widen. "Really?"
I nod. "Totally, so you should have some." I offer the fork. "Unless you don't like peaches. There's other stuff in there like pineapple and cherries or more Pop-Tarts. It's up to you."
I watch Emmie consider her choices for a moment with pursed lips, causing her cute dimples to appear. "Well, I've never had pineapple before," she says shyly.
I stand and scour the cabinet for a can of the yellow fruit and set it on the table for her to view. "Want to try some?"
She analyzes the picture and shrugs. "Okay."
I pop open the can and return to chowing down the rest of the peaches. Once Emmie sticks her fork into the pineapple and nibbles on it, I have practically finished the entire can, and almost immediately go for another, but stop and opt for a bottle of water instead. I remember my mom telling me that rationing is key to long-lasting survival.
Emmie makes a sour face upon her first bite; her eyes and lips squinch up tight in reaction to the taste, giving me the perfect opportunity to ask her opinion. "So what do you think? Do you like—?"
I spin around to see Travis scrambling out of his bunk, fumbling to make the bed with unusual speed. He rapidly tucks in the sheets along every edge and corner, ensuring they are precisely flattened with a swipe of his hand. My eyebrows sink down toward my nose as Emmie and I watch him go through the cycle.
Suddenly he freezes as if someone's clicked pause. His arms fall slack and he presses a hand to his face, seeming frustrated or confused. Probably both. "Well that was a dream," Travis murmurs, and peeks his head around to look wearily at Emmie and I. "These beds remind me of boot camp," he confesses awkwardly. "So much so that I dreamed about it."
I don't say anything, just simply take in the information and continue to sip on my water.
Once Travis has completely snapped out of his ways, he eyes my water bottle and meets us in the kitchen area. I grab one for him, set it on the table, and he guzzles the thing dry in seconds. "I'm going to go take a walk."
A walk? He's stepping out of the shelter on day two? So much for why did you ever leave?
No way am I going to dictate what he can or can't do, so I grab the keys without giving a verbal response and pop open each lock. As I do, Travis converses with Emmie; he asks how she's doing and if she slept well. Normal small talk. When I finish, he grabs his gun from the table and gives me a guarded look, as if to say don't follow me, and slowly ascends the steps. I try ignoring his expression, however I can't help but wonder what he meant by it.
A few different scenarios pop into my head as to what he'll do up above.
Once he's out of the shelter, I decide not to bother re-locking the doors until he returns, so I set the keys back on the counter and sit down next to Emmie again. She's currently swinging her legs off the edge of her chair, impatient or bored now that she's done eating.
Her mind is so young to be poisoned by the terrible reality we're living. The poor girl hasn't been around long enough to enjoy the finer things. Maybe that's a good thing. Still, I hate that she has to live this way as a little girl. I consider talking about happy things like TV shows or toys, but realize I would rather not get her excited about something she will probably never get again, so we lamely discuss her favorite fruits and how vegetables are good for you—boring motherly talk. Soon, it warps into a discussion about my mother's garden, which starts to dig up pain I've been burying down deep, so I have to cut it short. Plus, Travis's extended absence is beginning to raise red flags in my head.
Maybe I upset him last night and now he wants space from me.
I get up from my chair and pace across the floor, back and forth, back and forth. I've got to see what's up. It's been too long.
"What's wrong?" Emmie asks behind her long brown hair.
I purse my lips. "Travis has been gone a while. I'm just worried he might he might be in trouble."
Luckily she doesn't catch onto my building anxiety and simply smiles. "He always wins fights."
I frown at her comment. "He might need help in another way. I think I'm going to go see if I can find him."
She pushes her hair behind her ear. "When he leaves, he usually tells me to stay inside at all times so I don't get hurt."
"Okay. Then I will go out and check for him, and you can stay here until I get back. Want me to get you something else to eat before I leave?"
When she shakes her head, I snatch the keys for safe-keeping, climb out of the space, and shut the doors softly, leaving Emmie alone.
It will only take a moment, I assure myself. I'll find him, see if everything's good, and then head right back to the shelter.
I take a deep breath in and do a perimeter around the barn first, wondering if he got intrigued there. But by the looks of the position of the locks, they haven't been moved. He hasn't been there. Next, I circle the farmhouse, keeping my eyes peeled for any movement as I head toward the front. I guess this will count as the home visit I wanted to do today.
With a heavy heart, I step onto the paint-chipped front porch and envision my mother knitting in her rocking chair, which sits untouched all the way to one side, right next the flagpole. A couple houseplants are still there from when my mother and I planted them months ago; some still show a bit of green.
I enter through the already opened door, and see what has become of the inside. I scan the panelled wall of family photos and spot a pile on the floor where some that were knocked off had cracked. I pluck up an old picture of me out on the road in my brand new white car, pretending to drive. My mom had taken the photo the very first day I got it. I was younger then, at the ripe age of fifteen. My hair was dyed brown and my teeth were finally clean of braces. Looking to today, nothing in the picture is the same. My car has been stolen, I don't have Mom and Dad anymore, and my hair is back to its original cherry red.
Gently, I hang the photo back onto the wall and pick up the rest to clear some of the hallway, making sure I don't stare too long at the family pictures. Continuing on, I head into the first room on the right—my parent's room—fully equipped with wallpapered walls and rustic hardwood flooring like the rest of the place. I take a few breaths, knowing that if I get even the slightest smell of my mother's perfume, I'll break into a million pieces.
When I step inside, I swallow hard at the horrifically mangled room. It's been ripped apart from top to bottom, from open dresser drawers with clothing pouring out the sides, to bills and memorabilia covering almost the entire floor. Irritated at the sight, I brush some of the papers to the side to create some sort of clean space. Much of it has become irrelevant—bills, records, and business cards. It all derived from the desk in the corner, where my dad's straw cowboy hat still sits.
Some pillows are missing from the bedding set, but the sheets and mattress still remain; it's just messy. I scan along my mother's dresser surface and internally scream at the person in front of me, glad I stayed quiet when I realize it's just my reflection.
I'm hardly identifiable.
The dirt and dried blood crusted along my face covers every single freckle on my cheeks and nose. My fair skin tone is stained an entire shade darker because of the layer of grime on me. Specks of dust have burrowed into each crease and pore of my skin. I look like I've aged ten years, maybe more. In a way, I can see my mother in me. My petite chin, prominent cheekbones, and eyes. My round peridot eyes, an exact replica of hers.
I immediately turn away.
In an instant, I become greedy and scour the place for anything that will return my parents to me. I dig deep in one of my mother's drawers and find a navy shirt still folded beneath a clump of non-folded clothing. I bring the fabric close and inhale, but the scent I am searching for doesn't make the cut.
It's gone.
I close my eyes and clutch the blue top as if it is my mother herself. Then I reach over, grab my dad's hat, and bring it into my chest. That's when I hear it.
Clink!
I freeze in place as if I've met Medusa's gaze and set the items on the dresser. The sound had to have come from my room. It was too close to be the kitchen.
The hair on the back of my neck flares up as I tiptoe back into the hallway and toward my room, praying for a rodent. I have no defense against anything larger. Staying as calm and collected as possible, I step into the room and am flustered when I see Travis standing in it, analyzing my wall full of memories.
"Hey!" I announce my presence, which causes Travis to go into military mode and aim his gun in my direction. When he realizes it's me, he drops the act and gives a lame apology. "Sorry. And uh, I wasn't going through your stuff. I was just...curious..." he trails.
I rush over to him, avoiding the shattered glass from my vase spread along the floor. I snatch the picture frame out of his hand. "Ever heard of privacy?" I sneer, my jaw hardening with fury. "Back. Off."
He doesn't move, but instead stands there as if he hasn't comprehended a single word I've said.
"Are you deaf? Seriously, step aside."
He clears his throat and side-steps to his right, my left. I analyze the clusters of things he's been able to examine since he's been in here. A couple framed photos of me, some posing with school friends, others with Mom or Dad. An empty perfume bottle that I held on to just because it was pretty. A book I never got around to reading. A rubber bracelet supporting my old dentist office. Did he open any of my drawers?
I wander around him and plop down onto the edge of the memory-foam mattress and stare into space. Recollections whiz past my mind before I can grab them and secure them forever. Day by day, I lose my old life. My memories. My family. Everything. All I have are ghosts of the past. I tuck my knees up into my chest and shut my eyes, thinking through the last few weeks. They still seem so unreal. I almost wish this house had caught fire so I couldn't be reminded of how good life used to be.
Travis sits down beside me. "I shouldn't have come in here," he admits with a sigh. I shrug off his words and exit my room. "Wait up, Aurora," Travis calls. It's the first time I've heard him say my name out loud.
The kitchen comes into my view and I gasp. Every single cabinet door is wide open, with tupperware and plates and glasses everywhere I look. The dining chairs I sat at for years are all knocked over or out of place. My eyes shift to the living room where knickknacks along the fireplace mantle are scattered along the hardwood floor next to more papers.
I cover my mouth at the sight and shrink down onto the couch. Why did I do this to myself? Why did I walk in here? Now this image is all I'll remember.
Travis says nothing, but the second his hand touches my back is the same second I crumble. As much as I try to hold back oncoming tears, I can't anymore. I press my face into my hands and cry. Right here in my house with a stranger.
The world really is over. It'll never return to normal no matter how much I dream it. How much I hope and wish it.
Travis remains silent. I haven't decided if it's because he feels awkward or because he's wrapped up in his own thoughts, but I feel alone without a voice to soothe me. I need someone. I need a distraction. Doing this by myself won't work. Surviving alone means losing myself in the process.
My shoulders eventually settle down and my breath evens out again. "Sorry, I just..."
He drops his arm and replies with, "Happens to all of us." His response is flatter than I'd hoped, like he's insincere. Like he's simply saying it to say it.
"I miss them." I say, sniffling. "I feel like I've failed them. Failed myself." I cough on the air exiting my lungs, still recovering from the crying.
Travis crosses his arms and leans back into the couch cushion. "You're not alone there."
I wipe away the tear streaks on my cheeks and ask, "Were you with your family when the outbreak happened?"
He shakes his head. "No, but I should've. I was..." He shuts his eyes. "I was out doing a recon mission, sort of like a practice test. Military training."
My eyebrows raise. "So have you seen them yet?"
He nods his head and gawks at the ground. "Yeah, uh...I left and went out to find them. Well, I left to go home." He shakes his head to clear his head and get his thoughts straight. "I stole a Jeep from the base so I had a car and was able to drive most of the way, at least until the gas dried up and I was in the middle of nowhere.
"Anyway, I had a brother. Noah," he huffs out. "He was eleven. And no, he...he didn't make it. Neither did my mom," Travis confesses, his eyes hollow. He takes a long, silent pause before continuing, and I wait, my patience fully intact. As I do, I feel my heart sinking lower into my stomach at his story, knowing it's only going to go downhill from here. "Not to get too personal, but we didn't have much of a dad growing up. He was gone all the time and left us before Noah was born, so in a way, I sort of became the father-figure for him. But I ended up the same; I wasn't there when he needed me. I hadn't seen him since the day I left for basic training a couple years ago."
Travis rubs his palm against his face and switches his stare to the wall. "They were both shot," he murmurs. He scoffs angrily, terminating the conversation with, "I'm done talking."
I bite my lip, not sure whether I should say I'm sorry or equally surrender to our sorrows together. "Whatever happened to them isn't your fault," I say as I gradually rise to my feet.
His Adam's apple bobbles when he swallows. "If I had been there...they probably would have survived."
"You don't know that for sure," I say, in hopes that I'll ease some of his guilt.
"Well I know that they're gone and I wasn't there when it happened," he counters. "But I was there to dig their graves."
My teeth clench at the thought. I didn't see my parents slain like he saw his family. Only in my nightmares. If I had, I don't know if I'd ever be the same again.