My brain flounders for a second trying to comprehend what she just said. I'm still gaping when Isaac reappears, brandishing his clipboard in the air.
"You're all clear, Jane. Head to the storage blocks to unload." He sounds chipper and excited, and I can't form coherent thoughts.
"Thanks, kid," Jane says, climbing back into her truck. She brings two fingers to her lips and lets out an ear splitting whistle. Her crew comes clambering back to the vehicles. They settle in, and Isaac and I watch them drive off.
"Isaac, who was that?" I ask, blinking back shock.
"Jane," he says simply, turning to the ladder.
"Jane who?"
"Jane... Clayton, I think." He grabs a hold of the ladder and hoists himself up. I follow close behind, hoping he isn't done. "She's the captain of the 3-to-4 Transfers. I see her about once a month."
We take our seats. My leg trembles as I untangle my thoughts.
How did she know me? What did she mean my name is well-known outside The Wall?
It doesn't make sense. There's nothing outside of The Wall. Nothing but devastation and emptiness, ruins and Infected.
I can't ask Isaac either; he wouldn't know. He didn't hear the conversation. Plus, what would he know about the world outside? Nothing, that's what.
"Isaac, why are you MU?"
I regret the question the moment it slips out. It doesn't even have anything to do with Jane. Plus, it's rude, like asking someone why they're crazy or why they can't function in normal society. Most MUs can't hold a job and don't survive in the compound; they end up in solitary in the Research Facility.
Isaac takes a deep breath and looks out over The Wall.
"You don't have to answer that," I say quickly, feeling my cheeks turn pink.
"No, it's fine." He squirms in his seat, thinking. "I was transferred to Compound 4 a few years ago. I started out in Compound 5."
He's not really looking at me, even though his eyes gaze in my direction. For a moment, Isaac's quiet. Then, he hands me his sketchbook. Not knowing what to do with it, I flip to a random page where I find a drawing of a person— rather the remnants of a person. In the picture, the human doesn't have any arms. Instead, bones protrude from empty shoulder sockets. Legs show gaping holes where chunks have been bitten out. Eyes sink in. The body hunches over, and behind it, a huge, black shadow looms.
For a black and white sketch, it's incredibly gruesome.
I flip through the next few pages, grimacing at a host of similar pictures. He's drawn endless scenes of Infected in their late stages--feasting on others, falling apart, scaling compound walls, and basically terrorizing the sane humanity.
"When the virus broke out, I was seven. I didn't have parents. Instead, I lived in this really nice boy's home in the city. We lasted a month after the initial outbreak, and then everything fell apart." He runs a hand over his hair and lets out a long breath. "Long story short, I spent about a year on the street before Compound 5 found me and brought me in."
I hand him his sketchbook back, thinking he's done. Instead, he looks down and keeps talking.
"I couldn't sleep. I would wake up screaming about monsters. Eventually, they gave me sleeping medication, and it helped. But when we started job training, gunshots made me have God-awful flashbacks. I was a mess.
"The captains didn't want someone who couldn't stand to hear gunshots working in a place that specializes in weaponry. So, the president labelled me as mentally unstable and sent me here."
I stare at the side of his head as he looks at anything but me.
"Did Dad do anything for you when you transferred here?" I ask, gently.
"He kept me out of solitary," Isaac laughs dryly. "Really, though, there's nothing that can be done. I take meds to sleep; I stay away from guns. Things have gotten easier since nothing really happens around here, but I'm not out of the water, yet."
I can't think of anything else to say, so we fall into an awkward silence.
"Don't worry. I'm not crazy. I won't hurt you."
When I look up, Isaac's staring at me.
"What?" I shake my head. "I never thought that. MU doesn't equal crazy. I know that better than anyone."
He sighs. "I can hope. Most partners take one look at my title and ask for a job reassignment within a week. No one ever sticks around."
"How many partners have you had?"
Isaac turns to a page in his sketchbook. Over his hands, I see the long lines of a tally.
"Eleven," he finally says, picking the pencil out of his hair and adding another mark. "Twelve, including you."
He looks at me with huge, sad eyes that are so green I think I can see blades of grass in them. Thick black eyelashes line the watery whites, blinking slowly underneath bushy eyebrows. They seem to be pleading. Begging me to stay. Not to desert him. I know that's not something I can promise, but for a moment, I'm moved.
"Listen, Isaac." I reach out and touch his knee. He looks at my fingertips then back at my face. "I'm not going anywhere. Us crazies have to stick together. Don't worry for a second about that."
He smiles— the kind of grin that lingers in your cheeks and pulls your lips into thin lines. His cheeks hold two sister dimples, more adorable than I can possibly explain.
All I can think is: what a pair we are.
Isaac pulls away from me and opens his sketchbook. That's the signal that he's done talking. I didn't get to the important questions, but that feels like pushing it. Digging too much might unearth a monster I can't handle. So, I watch him sketch in silence and listen to the time passing in clicks of my watch.
Several hours later when the sun begins to set, the night guards show up. Isaac helps them shut the door, giving me a soft pat on the back as I point to the bandage on my arm. Instead, I watch.
The difference between night and day guards sticks out as clear as, well, night and day. The late crew is rougher, scruffy in the face with calloused hands and elbows. Isaac looks like a kitten beside them, minus the sleeve tattoos. Also unlike Isaac, our replacements carry guns--one per person, thrown over wide shoulders.
"Want me to walk you home?" Isaac asks as we're packing up our stuff. He dumps everything into the plastic bucket, and I hold the chair awkwardly against my chest.
"Um, no, that's okay." I pass him the chair. "Do you live in a house?"
"Nah. I camp with most of the other residents. My tent's pretty close to the research facility, just in case I have an episode."
I nod. The RF isn't far from my house. At least there he has access to the public showers and bathrooms.
"We're going the same way, then," I say with a smile. "We can just walk that far together."
The idea sounded like a good one at the time, but it quickly grows boring. Isaac doesn't talk. Instead, he keeps his head down and kicks at the sidewalk. So, I do the same thing.
Eventually, we arrive at the Research Facility, a tall building that shines compared to the shabby tents around it. The coverings have faded in the bright sunlight, and strings of all colors hold the pieces together.
Isaac turns to me before we get into the busy section of the shambles.
"Well, this is me," he says. "I'll see you in the morning, right?"
His eyebrows raise slightly, like there's even a chance I won't come back. Even if I don't feel like it or don't really like him, I already promised I wasn't going anywhere. It's hard not to be compassionate towards him, considering he's more broken than I am.
"Yeah. You'll see me in the morning."
His face instantly brightens up.
"Perfect! I'll pick you up outside the gates at five-thirty." He shoots a giant, contagious grin my way, and I smile back. He turns and walks away, humming to himself. It's a mystery how he can be so cheerful, but maybe it's better not to question it. Sometimes, it's best not to know.
Instead, maybe I can learn from it. Enjoy the little things or something like that. I guess I have the rest of our boring Day Guard lives to figure it out.
"Yo, Muney!"
Oh, God.
I turn around, gritting my teeth as I see Farrah loping towards me. He's smiling and doing that thing where he swings his arms.
"Evening, Captain," I say forcedly, nodding as I begin walking home. I dodge past him, but he twirls around and walks beside me.
"How was your first shift?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
"Fine."
"See anymore Infected in the outer yard?"
"No."
"Well, maybe they've decided to stay away from you. All you do is get them shot."
I grit my teeth even harder and shove my fists into my pocket.
"Do you need something, Far--I mean, Captain? I'm off shift."
"Actually, yes." He stops walking and puts a hand in front of me to make me stop, too. "I came to tell you that we drew sticks to see where the Transfers from 3 would be staying."
My stomach drops. I know exactly where this is going before Farrah even says it. Dad and I live in a two bedroom house. My room is smaller than his office at work. More than likely, we were the short stick in this situation. It seems like something Farrah would do— cram ten people into our house for the night.
"And— wait for it..." He holds a finger up in the air for effect. I fight a growing urge to storm away. "You won! I delivered them to your welcoming door just a few hours ago. I told them to make themselves at home, and they seemed very grateful. Unlike you, Muney, who seems angry."
A million things to say to him race back and forth in my brain. Why me? Why always push me around and make my life miserable? I've never done anything to him! It isn't fair that I have to be punished for existing. I want to grab him by the shoulders, shake him several times, and scream at him as loud as I can. It would be easy to explain why this whole housing situation makes no sense. We're the smallest house on the block, for God's sake!
But, instead of saying anything, I bite my tongue and shove past him, stomping ahead on the path. Snapping at my superior would only land me in more trouble. I've caused enough of that to last for a while. Still, heat burns in my face. Farrah laughs behind me, probably feeling like he's won. Again.
I pass under the gate a few minutes later, its yellow blinking lights casting their glow on the sidewalk. All around the neighborhood, light shines through windows. The sound of running water greets my ears as well. Music even drifts out of one house.
Seems unfair, considering there are people sleeping in tents just a block away from the subdivision.
Looking up at my house, though, sleeping in a tent doesn't sound so scary. Through uncurtained windows, I see all of the visitors sitting on our couch, the floor, the kitchen chairs. Like sardines, all crammed inside a tiny can.
"Hey! Jay's here!" a man calls, and nine heads turn towards me. All at once, everyone waves and peeps out the window at me. I smirk and wave back. Admittedly, it's nice to have someone happy to see me when I get home— or to have someone at home waiting in general. Also, I wonder who told them to call me 'Jay'. Most people either call me by my name or Muney. Dad's the only one left who even remembers that was my nickname.
Someone opens the door for me, and I'm ushered into my own living room.
A man with skin blacker than Farrah's plays cards in the corner of the room. Two others play a board game at the kitchen table. On the couch, four squeeze shoulder-to-shoulder with books perched in their hands from our shelves. Two girls brush each other's hair, sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking like they just came from the shower.
I stare around the room, feeling like a single drop of water drowning in a pond, when a familiar voice calls out.
"Welcome home, Jaelyn Price."
"Jane," I whisper, spinning towards the staircase.
"Jaelyn," she whispers back, smirking. "Thanks for letting us stay here. We've been camping for days. This is a nice break from that wind outside."
"Um, yeah, no problem." I rub the back of my neck. "We drew sticks apparently."
"I know. I was there."
"So you know Farrah cheated?"
Jane rolls her eyes. "He literally broke your stick in half and put it back in the cup."
We laugh together, and a warm feeling spreads through my body, like I've just taken a big gulp of sugared-up coffee. Jane's eyes crinkle at the edges. The freckles on her cheek dance. I notice she has a scar on her right cheek, barely noticeable. It's just enough to make her look tougher.
"All seriousness aside," she says, "the crew wanted to know if they could build a fire in your backyard. They found a fire pit and gathered twigs and everything like the little boy scouts they are. If you'll allow it, we'll cook you dinner and tell you stories about our trips."
"I don't mind. That sounds great."
I can't honestly remember the last time someone used the fire pit, so I'm glad it's getting use.
"Awesome!" she says, bouncing down the step. She tilts her body over the railing and yells, "Hey, boys! Go light that fire." Guys from all around the room jump up, nearly tripping over themselves. The excited yipping reminds me of a bunch of dogs.
"I'm going to get cleaned up." I edge around her and pick at the bandage on my arm. It's dried and crusty. It needs to be changed. Bad.
"I'll keep an eye on them," she says, "and when you come back, maybe I can answer some of those questions burning in your eyes."
She winks at me and jumps down the last two steps, disappearing out the back door. Her voice drifts back in as she tells the men not to build the fire too high. The only thought on my mind as I walk up the steps is whether or not I should make a list.