Notes From the End of the World Page 3

  “Hi.” I already feel stupid, but I’ll appear even stupider if I take off now.

  “Hey, Cindy,” Nick says. He smiles and my knees suddenly feel like they might come unhinged.

  “What are you drawing?”

  “Just fooling around. Sit down.”

  I do, my naked knee grazing his. I shift away slightly. “I’ve always wanted to learn to draw,” I say, which isn’t altogether true. But gosh, does he smell good. “You make it look so easy.” I run my hand over my sweaty hair, hoping to calm down any errant strands. My ponytail has come loose and there’s a mess of dirt caked on my shinguard.

  “I should go. I’m a mess.”

  Nick glances at me and my face grows warm again, like it always does when he looks at me. “You should be. If you weren’t messy, you didn’t play hard enough. That’s what my dad always said, anyway.”

  I laugh. “Well, then I played my ass off.”

  “You did,” he agrees. “I watched.” He turns his attention back to the page. The few lines that were there when I first walked up are magically developing into the lithe, muscular form of a superhero woman. “And no,” he adds, “it isn’t as easy as it looks. But I do it all the time. Practice makes perfect.” He laughs slyly. “I’m beginning to sound like an old fart.”

  “But it’s true,” I say to him. He was watching me, is what I say inside my head.

  “The key is to relax.” Nick flips to a new page in the sketchbook and gives me the pencil.

  “Here,” he says. “Don’t grip it like you’re writing. Just let it rest between your finger and thumb.”

  He touches my fingers, placing them on the pencil. I love the way his hands feel, warm, a little rough.

  “Now, try something easy,” he tells me. “Like a circle. Keep your wrist loose and just make the shape.”

  I do, but the circle is more an egg than a wheel.

  “Not bad,” he says.

  “Right.”

  “Not at all.”

  Although I could’ve stayed next to Nick the rest of the day, I hand him his pencil. “I guess I need to go before Coach locks up. Thanks.”

  “See ya, Cindy.”

  I jog back toward the locker room, smiling like a crazy girl and happy he can’t see my face. Before I go inside, I turn to wave, but Nick is already gone.

  Chapter 4

  September 14

  Cindy

  The dreaded family meeting. I’m amazed that Audrey actually showed up. She skipped dinner, claiming to study at Nick’s house. I have my doubts about that since Nick texted while she was out, looking for her. She can be such a bitch sometimes. Still, lucky her, in more ways than one—Mom decided to try her hand at Indian food. I don’t know what it was, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t actually food.

  I cover for her, of course, because I’m a bitch, too. And a selfish one, at that. If they break up, then Nick will move on (probably with someone much better for him than my own slutty sister), but I’m afraid I’ll never see him.

  The last time we had a family meeting was when Hurricane Irene appeared to be bearing down on Palm Dale. Assuming the Audrey and I would be frightened, Mom and Dad explained why we were suddenly buying cases of bottled water and what would happen if we had to evacuate. Of course, that was four years ago and neither of us could drive. We were off the hook then. Not so much now.

  I wasn’t afraid then, but maybe I was too young to understand the gravity of the situation. I’m now four years wiser.

  We converge in the family room and Mom switches off the television. The house falls strangely silent, and I don’t much like it. It seems either music or the television is always on when we’re all at home.

  Audrey finally shows up, a half-hour late. She plops down on the sofa next to me, smelling like pot smoke and a healthy spray of the Blue Light perfume that I gave her last Christmas. Her hair's a mess, but Mom and Dad don’t notice or else decide not to notice. I assume the latter. Boy, it must be nice to be Audrey…

  She pulls out her cell phone and starts to text.

  “Give it a break, Audrey,” Dad snaps. “You can spare a few minutes, I think.”

  She breathes a hugely exaggerated sigh and slumps back into the sofa. Mom takes her phone and places it on the end table.

  Then Mom squeezes between us, grinning like a girl. She had a couple of glasses of wine while making dinner and another afterward and is on her way to becoming buzzed. Mom’s wine-induced silliness is a rarity, and usually a lot of fun, but tonight she holds it in check. The family meeting is serious business. Dad paces in front of us like a teacher in front of a class.

  “Now, we all know what happened at the hospital yesterday, so don’t need to go over the details of the N-Virus. Things are becoming more dangerous out there. I understand a carrier was spotted at school today,” he says. “Did either of you see him?”

  “I didn’t,” I answer.

  “I did,” Audrey says. “He was wearing a “Member’s Only” jacket and a bad haircut.”

  “Really?” Mom asks.

  “Well, I thought it was a Shambler. Turned out, it was just Mr. Winkler, the tenth grade science teacher.” Audrey giggles, sounding a little stoned.

  Dad smiles tightly. “Okay, you’ve gotten one in. But this is really serious, girls.” When he says “girls” like that, he always means Mom, too. I think it’s sweet, but it makes Audrey cringe.

  Maybe it's Dad’s analytical mind that makes him want to plan ahead, but it’s not like Shamblers are wandering down our street. I’m positive the government will come up with a solution before very long.

  More than the analytical thinking, I imagine Dad has more than a touch of paranoia—from reading so many medical reports and things such as that. Either way, Dad’s a planner, which is nice most of the time. Like vacations, travel soccer season, his week at work, or our college. It isn't as much fun when it's disease outbreaks for which he's planning.

  I just hope this time it's a case of “better safe than sorry.”

  “Now, over the next few weeks, we’re going to be stockpiling essentials. I’ve made a list of the items each of us will be in charge of gathering.”

  Audrey makes another stupid “I’m bored and dying” kind of sound and I want to slug her, but don’t. Let her be the idiot. Maybe Mom and Dad will see it, finally. Dad passes a sheet of paper to each of us.

  He’s made four columns with each of our names at the top. Audrey begins reading the list following her name, unable to disguise the disgust in her voice.

  “Toothpaste, toilet paper, tampons, soap, floss, shampoo. Bleach, white towels. Come on, Dad. Why do I need to be in charge of toilet paper? And tampons? Should I go and get a case at a time? That’ll look cool.” She rakes her fingers through her thick hair and pulls a face like just reading the list has exhausted her.

  “Why does Audrey always get the fun ones?” I want to say, but again catch myself in time. It isn’t a time to tease. I’ll take the higher road.

  “Cindy. For your items, Audrey will drive you. Pick up your items on the same day.”

  My list requires a visit Home Depot. I need to get batteries—six-battery packages of each size, gasoline canisters for the emergency generator, and huge containers for saving water. I can’t begin to picture what it’ll be like if water runs out. Worse, I can’t imagine what it might be like once the weather begins to grow colder and there’s no electricity. I hate the cold and even in the South, it sometimes gets horribly cold.

  Some of the other things I need to gather include utility knives, duct tape (the super tool), and a battery-powered radio.

  “You girls help each other—Audrey, your list is Cindy’s and vice versa. Go on Monday and Friday for the next four weeks and get as much as you can stuff into the X5.”

  Audrey quiets down when she learns she’ll get to drive Mom’s BMW SUV at least two days a week for a while.

  “Your mother and I will be in charge of building the food supply, medication, and f
irst aid items,” Dad continues. He tone has lightened—he’s planned a course of action. We’ll all be okay, if we simply follow it.

  “Just think of this as a scavenger hunt,” Mom says cheerfully.

  Audrey shakes her head. “What’s the prize? A giant box of Tampax?”

  My mind drifts for a few moments. I try to imagine how they can be preparing for the coming apocalypse as the evening sun bleeds through the windows like gold paint and kids laugh and shout just outside on the street in front of our house.

  Of course, this isn’t the end of the world I tell myself. It’s just September.

  ***

  Nick

  Nobody can prepare for such an impact. Crashing metal. Glass sprays inward, into my face like a hundred bee stings. Headlights blinding, coming, coming, and the front of Dad’s Volvo instantly rises in front of us, as crumpled as a piece of paper. Then it’s over and the silence is worse than the crashing. My airbag deploys, throwing my scrawny thirteen year-old body backward. Pain explodes from the middle of my chest outward. I can’t catch my goddamned breath, I’m dying.

  I black out, and there’s peace.

  Then I wake, gasping. How long has it been? Where am I? Smoke and steam cloud the air, stinking of gas and exhaust, but through it, I see Dad next to me, unmoving.

  The driver’s side airbag failed and he's taken the full impact of the collision. He’s a big guy, my dad, but slumped over the steering column he’s like some kind of stupid, broken doll. The steering wheel has bent nearly in half. I scream.

  I scream.

  I scream.

  ***

  My earbuds are still screwed into my ears when I wake, Sun Airway’s mechanical beats swirling in my brain. My t-shirt and shorts are glued to my skin with sweat—I’m burning up. I sit up and shake my head hard, trying to unclog the residue of the nightmare.

  The same nightmare again. For the past four years. That isn’t normal—Miles, my idiot stepdad, say so. I despise Miles, but I tend to agree with him on this. It isn’t normal and no amount of spilling my guts to a therapist is going to help.

  Still, I go through the motions because that keeps the peace. It keeps Mom happy and Miles quiet, and Micah, Miles’s brat eight year-old son, away from me.

  The text came through at a little past nine p.m. but by then I’d fallen asleep

  @ Tasha’s. Practicing new cheers. <3 U!

  I contemplate texting Audrey back, but instead set my phone aside and go back to my sketch pad. Screw her, anyway.

  This sketch is a zombie from the Dawn of the Dead remake, with maybe a dash of The Walking Dead thrown in, drawn from memory. The only difference is this one is wearing a Palm Dale High soccer uniform and has my hair and what is left of my face. Sure, it’s one hell of a twisted self-portrait. I grin to myself and add a head on the ground in place of a soccer ball. I’ll post it on my website tomorrow, once I finish shadows and other details. People actually buy these things, can you believe it? Zombie geeks are the most rabid buyers of my sketches, followed by the sci-fi nuts. Last month, I sold a simple Darth Vader ink and colored pencil for one hundred dollars. My savings account is getting nicely fat—I’ve made over fourteen hundred dollars since I started posting four months ago. Of course, I share this with nobody. Not even Audrey. I’m not that stupid.

  When I finish, he flip the sketchpad closed and place it in the middle of a stack of comic books, where it can’t be found when Mom and Miles come in to snoop for the drugs they never find. I don’t even like pot and booze is only an occasional vice, but that must be too hard to believe about a messed-up kid like me.

  Miles would shit if he saw what I’m working on, but that’s par for the course. Miles fills Mom’s head with all kinds of bullshit. Dad’s body wasn’t cold in the grave before Miles and his rugrat started coming around, pretending they were “there to help.” Miles is a cop and a stupid one at that. Dad said more than once that people who were bullies in high school became cops. That has to be Miles’s deal. The bully has never left him. Miles has even tried to bully me into calling him “Dad.” When I refused, Miles decided I wasn’t worth his time. We live in the same house—Darryl Thatcher’s house, by the way—but that’s all. Miles and I’ve scarcely spoken to each other in three years. I want it that way.

  I’ve learned to block out the pain that’s permanently etched on Mom’s face.

  Fourteen hundred bucks isn’t a lot, but it’s a decent start. Once I get away from Palm Dale, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I come back, even for a visit. I’ve been accepted into the Academy of Art in San Francisco, but that’s another secret. Sometimes I feel like living all the way across the country will still be too close.

  In California, nobody will know me. The pressure will be off. Audrey will forget me and I’ll forget her. We’ll finally have an excuse to part ways—that’s all we’re waiting for, anyway.

  Besides, I’ll miss Cindy more than Audrey. At least she acts like I’m more than just the other half of the most popular couple in school.

  Chapter 5

  September 16

  Cindy

  It’s been two days since the Shambler came onto the campus. There’s rumors of a county-wide curfew being issued, but nothing’s happened so far. The sun hovers above the trees like a big orange ball and everything out front of our house has this soft red glow. Warmth. It's a good life, a normal life—a little boring, a little pale, I suppose. Later, maybe I’ll understand how spoiled we’ve become by the ease of life in Palm Dale. Never wanting for anything other than a few more minutes on the soccer field or an extra half-hour at the mall on a school night.

  I wonder if the N-Virus will turn out to be the bitchslap of all bitchslaps. We live in a world of spoiled brats and it’s reckoning time.

  A typical Thursday night in the Scott household—Audrey leaving on a date with Nick and pretending she’s still into him although we all know she’s a cheat, and me, changing out of my practice gear. My legs still have the impressions of the shinguards—a nifty look if I want to go out in a skirt or shorts later. My knees are scraped—hardly the mark of sophistication, but what the hell. They’re always scraped during soccer season. Besides, my big night out consists of the library or hanging with Amy or Melissa or someone other boring, only vaguely popular girl who can’t scare up more than one or two dates a month. We might go to the J.V. game, which will mark us as eternally desperate for something to do, or we can go to the aforementioned mall, which also reeks of desperation—at least for me.

  Maybe the N-Virus will get so out of hand, we’ll end up living inside the mall like in Dawn of the Dead.

  ***

  September 21

  I didn’t imagine things would changed so much in only a week. My turn at volunteering at the hospital has come back around. Dad warned me things are spiraling downward at an alarming rate, but when I step through the automatic doors of the E.R., the scene is enough to make me want to turn around and flee back out into the sunny parking lot.

  First, the stench hits me like someone shoved dirty socks in my face. The odor of illness permeates the air, like the stink of garbage left to putrefy out in the heat. I breathe through my mouth to keep from gagging. Throwing up is not a good impression on those who are already ill. Besides, Dad told me that the first time I let things in the E.R. get to me will be my last time volunteering.

  Gurneys line both sides of the hallway, leaving only enough space to navigate through, each one occupied by a sweating, moaning body. The normally quiet corridor is terrible a choir of crying, grunting, and delirious babbling. Those who are able pray softly—a troublesome murmur that makes the little hairs on my arms stand up.

  I rush through, my head down. I don’t want to look anyone in the face. I don’t want to make eye contact with those I can’t help.

  I don’t want to see anyone I might recognize.

  I don’t want to touch them or want them touching me, although I well know by now how the N-Virus is transmitted. Still
, it’s as if the simple act of dying is contagious and I want no part of it. Maybe Audrey’s right. Is helping others so important that I’ll risk my own skin?

  As I check in, I can’t help noticing how everyone’s demeanor has changed. The jovial, often caustic banter has morphed into this strange solemnness. Boisterous Sara only nods as I step behind the counter. I pull on a labcoat over the ill-fitting scrubs Dad has given me, a nameplate embossed with the legend “volunteer” pinned over my left breast. My name isn’t Cindy now—it’s “volunteer.” I wonder if this is almost as desperate as going to a J.V. game or hanging out at the mall with a couple of semi-popular girls. A “volunteer”—I’m doing this for nothing in return.

  Audrey’s dumb attitude must have rubbed off on me today. I shove the notion aside and wait for someone to tell me what to do.

  The bustle of the E.R. is beyond chaotic. There seems to be double the staff on the floor, everyone moving from gurney to gurney, checking blood pressure, listening to chests, adjusting blankets. It all amounts very little, it seems.

  I watch, uneasy, wondering where Dad is in all this…confusion.

  “Make sure you wear a mask and gloves at all times today,” someone says. I turn to find a tall, older nurse shoving a pair of latex gloves at me. “I’m Sylvia, by the way. I’m supposed to be retired, but it seems they need me. Don’t you think?”

  “Looks like it,” I agree, tugging on the gloves. “Have you seen my dad? Dr. Scott?”

  “You’re Ben Scott’s daughter? I should’ve guessed—you look like him. A good thing,” she adds, winking. “What’s your name?”

  I told her.

  Sylvia looks as though she’s been on her feet for two days straight. Her mascara has smudged, making her appear as if she’s been crying. “Your dad’s around here somewhere.”

  I reach into the supply cabinet and take out a mask. It’s only then that I realize my hands are shaking. Sometimes I get a case of nerves at the beginning of a soccer match—especially with a tough team—but this is something else. I’m suddenly terrified. For myself, for my dad, for my little town.