Counting Down (22 page)

She shook her head hard to clear the cobwebs of sorrow that had gathered there.
She would remember more than insignificant facts. She would remember who he was. He was the man who rescued terrified dogs and found pleasure in sneaking
carrots
to horses. He was the unassuming yet unrepentant romantic with a love for poetry who fed her cheesecake under the stars. He was the man she had shared a life with once upon a time in a land full of wildflowers and mist from the sea.

Abby smiled to herself. She knew him, knew his heart the way she knew how to mix colors on a palette. He was part of her. She understood him better than she understood anything else regardless of whether or not she could put that knowledge into words that made sense to anyone else. No, it was something too complicated for words, she told herself.

It was then that she heard his voice. She hadn’t heard it since that first night in the shelter when her uncle had probed her to delve deep within herself and pull out visions of the world on the surface.

“My lily girl, not made for this world’s pain.”

She heard him like an echo in her head, flinched at the poetry on his tongue and the way it stabbed into her heart.

His voice came again, full of reproach. “Stop sulking Abby. There is work to be done.”

“What am I supposed to do?” She whispered between her teeth into the bunk above her. “I’m stuck in a freaking bomb shelter and you’re not here.” She held back a sob. “You’re not here.”

The voice continued. “You knew me for three days out of your life. You’ll be fine for the rest of it without me.”

“Oh really? Well I remember a lot more than just those three days. And that’s easy for you to say. You’re dead. Dying is easy.”

She heard his laughter reverberate through her mind. “Yes, that’s right. I’m a dead man. I almost forgot.”

Abby was trying to deal with her insane delusions when suddenly Alex was pulling her curtain open and peering at her. He kept the fabric tight around his face so she could see only the center of his features between the panels of cloth. “You okay?”

Abby cursed herself for not being more quiet. Now she’d get even more pathetic stares. Plus Alex and her uncle would never let her off suicide watch if she kept acting like a head case.

“Yes. I’m fine Alex.” She didn’t sound very convincing, even to herself. “Go back to playing Santa.”

He ignored her dismissal. “Who you talkin’ to?”

He was being a bit silly, continuing to keep the curtain tight to his face with his questions coming in playful one sentence bursts.

“No one.”

“Okay then.” He kept staring at her, looking like a deranged baby being born through the folds of the slate grey curtain.

Abby let out a reluctant laugh.
“You’re being really weird Alex. Are you drunk?”

“Maybe, but guess what?” She rolled her eyes. “What?”

“It’s Christmas and there are presents out here.”

“That’s great Alex. Why don’t you go open them? Maybe someone gave you some new hair products.”

He shook his head lightly. “There are presents for you.” With eyebrows raised he continued. “You should come out and open them up before I trade them for the last chicken stew MRE. It’s the end of the world, in case you missed the news flash. Christmas presents have become a very serious luxury which in turn makes them very precious commodities.”

Abby was intrigued but not quite ready to leave the confines of her self-imposed prison. She could think of a million other things to do besides mingle with seven people who were waiting fo
r her to snap in a fit of grief.

“You can have them. Or give them to Evie. I know you’ve been trying to get her attention lately.”

Alex shook his head, again looking silly and child like. “They’re not from me, or Jim, or anyone else who lives in this bunker.” With that he left, the curtain closing again behind him with a flutter.

That had Abby’s interest peaked. If they weren’t from anyone in the bunker that only left one option.

She bolted from the bunk and ran out into the living area. Seven pairs of eyes turned to her immediately. Well nine if she counted the dogs.

Abby wasn’t exactly expecting the scene before her. The two tables that usually sat against the walls had been pulled out into the center of the room and pushed together. In the center, above a runner of pale blue fabric sat a small plastic Christmas tree with presents wrapped in bright silver paper pushed under its low branches.

“Wanna put the star on top?” Alex asked with a smile. “Or there’s some hot chocolate on the stove. It’s instant but still pretty good.”

“Don’t believe him Abby.” Evie turned in her seat, flashing a smile towards Abby. “He just got me to eat the MRE hot dog.” Evie made a face. “I don’t recommend it. Not unless you’re into eating foamy meat product.”

Abby didn’t want to laugh, but a rogue giggle tumbled out of her anyway. All eyes turned in her direction. Her stomach did back flips and she tried to breathe. She forced herself to walk further into the room instead of fleeing to the safety of her bunk.

When she didn’t speak, her uncle chimed in. “There are some things here for you Kiddo.” He paused, words sticking on his tongue. “They’re from Kyle.”

Abby shook her head a little, confusion sweeping over her. “How?” Her voice was less than a whisper.

“He stashed them away in here along with the tree and the little ornaments on the day the tornadoes hit.
After he got back from town.” Jim handed her a cup of hot chocolate, gestured to Alex. “He told us where to find them.”

Abby almost laughed. Even in… her mind tripped over the word… death he was still surprising her. Choking back sudden tears she took a sip of the watered down hot chocolate.

She stayed with her companions, listening as they told stories of Christmases past, trying to enjoy herself. More than once she held back tears, choosing instead to smile as Alex rattled on about his family and the time he climbed onto the roof in his pajamas at the age of eight to prove to everyone that Santa was real.

Abby
thought of
her own childhood memories and how she had held on to the idea of Christmas magic for as long as she could, never giving up hope that a fat man in a red suit would show up through the fireplace and grant her little girl requests.

She closed her eyes tight, made a silent wish with such desperation that it made her heart ache. Give me hope, she said over and over again in her head. Give me just a little bit to hold on to. Please.

After a short time she politely excused herself and took her handful of presents back to her bunk. She wanted to open them alone so she could break down in private if she needed to. She didn’t want to make a spectacle of herself and ruin the night for everyone else.

There were three boxes; one fairly large deep shirt box and two medium sized shoe boxes. Abby had no idea what could be inside of them but she was eager to find out. With shaky hands she glanced at the tags where Kyle had scrawled her name in black marker. With eagerness and a touch of fear, she tore the paper from the biggest box.

Her breath became trapped in her throat as she pulled the item from the box, immediately recognizing it as a table top easel, obviously made by Kyle’s own hand. It was primitive, crafted from sanded and polished scraps of different thicknesses, yet somehow it was also extremely ingenious. Examining it further she realized the legs were hinged and folded up under the main frame of the easel. It would stand on its own, a freestanding easel and not a table top version.

“So that’s what he was building in the barn,” she mumbled quietly, thinking back to the day. A tiny smile turned up the side of her mouth, more full of sadness than anything resembling joy.

Taking a deep breath Abby turned to the other boxes. In the second one there were at least two dozen small tubes of paint, brushes, and thin pieces of plywood cut to fit the easel. He had thought of everything. Too bad the last thing Abby wanted to do now was paint. She couldn’t find the inspiration if she wanted to. A small note sat at the bottom of the box.

Paint Abby. Paint for you.

K.W.

In the third and smallest box she found two journals, both bound in black leather, and the copy of Oscar Wilde’s poetry she’d been reading just days before on Kyle’s couch. An inscription was scrawled on the inside cover.

To my lily girl.

She fought to keep her hands from shaking and turned to the journals. The first one she opened was blank, without a single word written on the pages. When she opened the second journal she could see that it was nearly full of scratchy handwriting.

January 4th 2012

Had the dream again last night. I’m still not sure what it means. I know it’s important - something I need to figure out - but I need some more clues. Or maybe I’m just losing it.

Abby flipped through the pages, breezing over Kyle’s detailed description of the past year of his life and his struggles with the visions that plagued his mind. There were lists of items he needed to buy: water, dry goods, dehydrated fruits, toilet paper – all survival materials.

Eager to see what he had written over the past few days, Abby turned quickly to the back of the journal. Her hands shook and her breathing quickening as she stopped on the pages she was looking for. She recognized her name among the words and edged closer to the light that hung on the wall beside her bunk. Though she didn’t need it. Not with the glow that continually flowed from her skin.

December 17th 2012

Met Jim’s niece tonight – Abby.
She glows like something out of a sci-fi movie. Apparently so do I. I feel like I know her already somehow – and not in a vague, shallow sort of way. When I’m near her flashes from her mind pop into mine like rain drops dripping into a puddle - complete with little ripples of emotion.

I get a sense that she’s in this for a reason – a big one that I don’t understand yet. It’s coming soon. That’s why she’s here. She knows what I know – has had the dreams too. There’s a strong attraction, a pull towards her I can’t explain. For the first time in a long time I feel like writing poetry – poetry about the glowing girl I met on the porch of the Yellow House tonight.

There were no other entries. Abby flipped page after page furiously seeing nothing but blank white paper. Finally she reached the last page of the book and sucked in her breath. Her name jumped off of the paper, hitting her in the heart like a massive sledgehammer. She held her hand over the page to see it more clearly, letting her light drip over the words. She should’ve been wearing her glasses, but she didn’t feel like trying to find them.

Abby,

I don’t know how things are going to work out yet. I have a plan but I’m preparing for the worst. I guess if you’re reading this then the worst is exactly what’s happened.

I’m sorry. I know I acted weird, but I wasn’t prepared for you to come into my life the way you did. Especially not now. I wanted to be with you – had finally begun to believe we had some kind of shot. I should’ve made more time.

But now you have to step up.
No feeling sorry for yourself. No wasting time away in the bunker. You are just as powerful as I am. Use the time below to harness that power. Prepare yourself and the others for the hard tasks ahead. The weight is on you now. You’re the only one who can save them.