Allison Hewitt Is Trapped (28 page)

Taking a rest, I kneel down and carefully clean the ax on one of the Groaner’s torn Windbreakers. I’m worried Dapper will try to lick it and get himself sick.

It takes us another thirty minutes to get to Lowell and every time we encounter one of the wandering undead it gets harder and harder to swing the ax. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have waited until I was stronger, healed, before striking out on my own. Who will keep watch while I sleep? Dapper? Suddenly, martyrdom seems significantly less glamorous and a lot more like a slow, creeping death.

It’s quiet on Lowell Street, which is simultaneously encouraging and a little alarming. There’s not a normal human being to be found, no wandering dogs, nothing to indicate that life remains. I’m not used to seeing the neighborhood like this—still, silent, filled up with wind and the eerie sense that time passes here with no one to mark its movement. I had seen it like this a few times before; whenever the St. Patrick’s Day Parade or Easter Hat Parade rolled around, the houses would empty out early in the morning and no one would return until lunchtime. But at least then there was the promise of return, the feeling that soon the neighbors would walk up the drive, tired or sunburned, but pleasantly so.

Like every other neighborhood we’ve slogged through, there are signs of a hasty retreat: front doors hang open, windows have been smashed and never replaced, SUVs and sedans clutter up the yards where escapes failed or the driver simply abandoned the car. The grass has grown long, tickling the top fenders of the SUVs, growing up and out as if to swallow the cars or turn them into ancient, tattered monuments to What Once Was.

The Hewitt residence is more than halfway down the block on the right side. It’s not a big house but I’ve always loved it. It’s just big enough to feel spacious and cozy enough to feel personal and loved and lived-in, like an oversized pair of knobby old house slippers. There are no Groaners here and no Floaters, just the sound of morning moving forward and a few birds greeting the sun as it winks at the city and then moves behind a bank of clouds. It’s an old brick two-story house with a sharply slanted roof and a porch with white, wooden railings. We always had plans to make it a screened-in porch to keep the mosquitoes out during the summer. We talked about getting the
New Yorker
and some mint juleps and reading aloud to each other on the muggy July nights when there was nothing to do but sit and bask in the wet, dizzy heat.

There’s a flag still hanging outside our house, a big white flag with a green peace sign. My mom was always a serious hippie and I could never convince her to get rid of that stupid flag. It seems vulgar now, swinging there, blaring a message of peace that means nothing at all anymore.

The car is gone, the garage door shut. I tell myself this is a good sign. I look for all kinds of signs, clues, hints that will tell me where she is, if she’s come back here or not. And like all signs, like all palm-readers and self-styled mystics, I’m grasping in the dark. But it’s an earnest grasping and I can’t seem to stop. The mailbox is empty and most of the windows are still okay. When I get onto the porch there are brown stains on the wood floor but that doesn’t necessarily mean something bad happened. It could be anything. Anything.

I have to kick the door down. That makes me smile. What a tender touch, Mom, locking the door when Armageddon is coming for you. Inside it stinks, but it’s a human kind of stink, a stench I recognize by now. There’s food somewhere that’s spoiled and the dirty dishes in the sink have begun a new and exciting mold colony. Tiny untold worlds have sprung up all over the house—cobwebs, mold, a trail of leaves leading to a broken window. But there’s no sign of my mother, just a sense that things were left in a hurry.

“Mom?” I call, being careful not to be too loud, to draw too much attention. “Mom, you there? It’s Allison.”

There’s a line of shoes against the wall of the mudroom but her gardening work boots are missing. Our matching flip-flops are there, reminding me again of the way we relished summer, the way we made it our own and squeezed every last warm, lazy day out of it.

Now there’s the smell of rotten milk and it doesn’t matter that the refrigerator door is closed because the decay, the rot, is everywhere. The spiders have made good use of the kitchen, constructing webs in every corner, stringing their houses from faucet to knob, from cookbook to fruit bowl. There are two black, caved-in apples in that bowl and a folded card next to it.

Remember us again next year! The Landry Family Apple Orchard

The card is trimmed in gold and red and a fragile little ribbon wound through a puncture at the top. I pick up the card, wipe the thin film of dust off of it, and tuck it into my back pocket. Dapper is busy sniffing every possible source of food and I keep a sharp eye on him, concerned that he’ll think a decidedly rotten piece of fruit is edible. His doggy curiosity does not include a matured sense of taste.

I explore the living room, the breakfast nook, the back porch. The upstairs is empty too, but my mother’s closet is still open, a trail of socks and underwear leading to the bed. There’s an impression on the mattress, a little square dent where maybe a suitcase sat. She got out, I think, she really did try to get to the apartments. I touch the mattress, forcing back a sickening wave of disappointment, she left and she never made it to the bookstore or the arena. There’s a third and worse possibility: that she arrived at the arena after the Black Earth Wives kidnapped Ned and me. She could’ve been caught in the chaos, in the blaze.

And still I don’t know why I want her to be here in the house. If she stayed she would be dead. Leaving, of course, was her only option.

I take some soap, shampoo, toothpaste and floss and go into my old bedroom. The windows are grimy and covered with the wispy patterns of cobwebs. I pack up some spare clothes in an old My Little Pony rucksack, the only thing in my closet with decent capacity. My grown-up things are at my apartment, but that’s too close to the thick of things, to whatever managed to survive the arena blaze. The clothes I choose will probably be on the snug side since they’re from high school, but it’s better than nothing. I try to find things of value to bring with me, things that might be worth trading for food or medicine. I find a box of old condoms underneath the mattress in my room; they’re past the expiration date but I know from the arena that they’re just as valuable as cigarettes. There’s a pack of those under my mattress too, stale and crappy, but maybe worth a can of green beans.

Before leaving, I go back downstairs and check near the phone. The phone is off the cradle, lying on a cluttered desk where my mom kept the mail and bills. It’s an antique, something from my grandmother’s attic and it still smells like sour books after all these years. The answering machine is there, but without electricity it’s useless. There is, however, a Post-it note near the machine, folded and faded but stuck in a prominent position. I pick it up, carefully smoothing down the edges.

Minny
—

I hope you’re safe. Aunt Tammy called and she said they’re setting up a camp in Fort Morgan. Take 39 down to 88, then to 80. Just follow 80 until you hit 76. It’s a long way and I don’t know if we’ll make it. I’m leaving with the Andersons from next door. We’re going to find Allison first.

And then at the bottom, underlined:

See you soon in Liberty Village!

Fort Morgan. Fort Morgan, Colorado. I’ve been there a few times to see Aunt Tammy and her family. They’re good people—outdoorsy types, hunters, fishers, kayakers. But that’s many states away, many hundreds and hundreds of miles away from here. She’s left the note for her cousin Minny, a woman I’d met a few times at family barbecues and holidays. I bet Mom never expected me to get my hands on it. So they were definitely headed to Colorado after picking me up.

My mom’s on the road with my neighbors, then. She didn’t make it to the apartments and she didn’t make it to the arena but that’s not proof that she’s dead. There’s the purse of course, but that could mean anything, anything at all. What made them go without me?

I go back upstairs, feeling a strange heaviness in my hands, and go into my mother’s bedroom. She’s left her perfume behind. I always loved the way she smelled, and that she never ever changed the perfume she wore. The scent has breathed into everything in that room and Anna Sui’s name might be on the bottle, but it’s my mom’s scent. I take the perfume bottle and hold it up to the light. Through the purple glass I can see there’s just a quarter of an inch left in the bottle. I shove it into my backpack and turn to go.

But there’s a sound downstairs, footsteps on the porch. There’s a stumble and a crack and my ax is up and ready to swing. I whisper to Dapper, who begrudgingly sits behind me, staring up at me with those wounded brown eyes. “I know you want to help, boy, but it’s for your own good.”

The footsteps come up the stairs, scraping across the wood, elbows or arms bumping against the wall. I can feel a little burst of energy come to me, a caffeine and adrenaline tenacity—the will to defend what’s mine. They won’t come in my house, my
mother’s
house. They won’t get me, not here and not now.

See you soon in Liberty Village!

I move a few steps closer to the open door. I need to get the drop on them because I have no idea how many they are. It could be just one but it sounds more like two or three. Tiptoeing, I command my heart to slow down, to give me a rest so I can concentrate, but the adrenaline is coming too fast and making my hands shake.

There’s a peek of skin at the door, a hand maybe, and I wind up and let out a barbaric scream as I aim the blade at neck level.

Whud!

“Gah—I—
Jesus!”

“Fuck!”

“Oh Jesus, Jesus
Christ
, Allison!”

It’s Ted and, thank Christ, his neck is still attached. The ax is buried two inches in the door frame and Ted is on the floor, his hands over his head. Renny stands in the doorway, clutching her chest with fright.

“Ted! Fuck! I could’ve fucking killed you!” I scream, jumping back and nearly tripping over Dapper.

“You could’ve fucking
beheaded
me,” Ted corrects, his shriek just about reaching the same panicked pitch.

Too overcome with excitement to stay sitting, the dog runs to Ted, licking his face and hands. If my heart was pounding before then it’s jackhammering a hole through my chest now. Ted looks at me from the ground, thunderclouds gathering in his eyes.

“Oh,” I say, straightening up as my pulse finally starts to regulate. Ted gets to his feet, busted glasses and rakish hair askew, placating Dapper with head scratches. “Funny meeting you here,” I say.

“We followed you,” says Ted.

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“My idea,” Renny boasts, yanking the ax out of the door frame. “He said you’d be mad but I didn’t expect this.” She nods toward the mangled wood.

“I thought you were … Whatever. What are you doing here?” I ask, taking the ax back from her. A little shower of splinters falls on Dapper’s head.

“We asked Ned to come too. I think he wanted to, but Evan and Mikey could use a change of pace, you know, some time to rest,” Ted replies.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” I say, shaking my head.

“You can’t make it on your own. It’s … it’s a stupid idea, Allison, and I think you know that,” he says.

“And I wasn’t going to let you pawn me off on a bunch of strangers,” Renny adds, glaring at me.

“But you know Ned,” I tell her. “And the kids.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t even know
you
but I’d rather be stuck with you all. Less chance of getting shot.”

“Collin and Finn know what they’re doing,” I say.

“Yeah? Then why’d
you
leave?”

“Oh I don’t know,” I say breezily. “Things were getting a little exhausting ever since my life turned into a fucking Mariah Carey song.”

“Lydia’s just … She’s just one person, you know? We could’ve figured it out. But I guess that doesn’t matter now. Not really, because we’re coming with you,” Ted says, peering at me from the long black fringe over his eyes. “There’s no point in arguing because we’ll just follow you and I
know
where you’re thinking of going.”

“Ted…”

“No, listen to me, please. I know I’m wrong sometimes but not always and I think you and me … We owe it to each other. We’ve been together from the start of this mess and we’ve managed to stay alive. That means something, doesn’t it? Doesn’t that matter to you?”

“Sure it matters, but … I don’t know … I just thought it was time for a change,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “It’s nothing against you, or you, Renny. I thought maybe it’d be better somehow.”

“Well, it’s not,” Renny says, throwing up her hands. “It’s a dumb-ass idea and you could’ve gotten yourself killed. Here.” She hands me a gun, a narrow little pistol. “Ned said to take this. He gave all of us a few things. He said to wish you luck and to give you this.” And here she takes my hand and shakes it, hard, like one professional to another.

“Fuck,” I say, feeling like she socked me in the stomach instead. I want to see Ned again and I want to see his kids. But more than that, I want my mom. This is the cost.

“Wanted to double-check?” Ted asks. Of course. He was there. He saw the purse and the note and coming here instead of heading straight for Colorado must have looked suspicious.

“I found this,” I say, handing them the Post-it in my pocket. I’m glad they have something to look at so I can quickly dab my eyes with the backs of my fingers. I don’t say to them “I’m so glad you’re here” or “I could really use the help” but I’m thinking it. The relief of having them there—of having them inadvertently correct my enormous blunder—makes me feel like a weepy baby.

“Liberty Village? What the fuck kind of joke is that?” Renny asks, chuckling.

“It’s not a
joke
,” I say, snatching the Post-it out of her hands. “This is where my mom went and it’s where I’m going too. This is the second time she’s mentioned it. I found a note in her purse a while ago. It’s the place, I know it. It’s where
we’re
going, if you two insist on following me.”