CHAPTER EIGHT
Amelia
I’m so hungry I shake. Seeing that boy, the snipers too, it pushed me into hiding. I went out the next day and caught a mouse in one of my traps, but now every time I pull back the black-out curtain, I shake and change my mind. I go out exactly once a day—just after dark-set. I go about two blocks away and do my business down what once was a street drain. Humiliating, but I can’t do it where I live. For one, I don’t want to smell it, and two, it’d bring every predator out there right to me.
But if I don’t get something to eat, pretty soon I won’t be able to get up. I’m already going a little nuts. At night I dream I’m being kissed. It’s so, so real. Other times it feels like someone’s standing over me, watching, but when I wake up, no one’s there. It’s the hunger, that and the dread of being found. Right now there’s nothing edible on the table, and Charlie has only offered his company.
Either I do this, or I die.
This is my third apartment tonight. I don’t have the strength to climb the balconies, so I only visit the first-floor apartments. I have no idea how these soldiers don’t hear me. Do they take drugs? Of course, not having any shoes on probably helps, but really, as sick and weak as I feel, I’m sure I make mistakes.
Pushing my wire through the gap between the window and the frame, I snap the lock open, then climb through and land as softly as I can. The scent of comfort greets me. There’s no other way to describe it. Every time I enter this apartment, just this one, I feel like I’m right where I’m supposed to be. It smells good—like strength, like being wrapped in a warm blanket, but something more too. I shake my head, pull my knife out of my pack, and creep to the bread box. The last two places, the bread was fresh with the heels still on so I couldn’t take any. My luck changes when I raise the lid; the loaf’s already been cut. My hands shake as I cut off the thinnest of slices. I know I shouldn’t, that I should wait until I’m home, but I cram the whole thing into my mouth, and I can’t chew fast enough. After swallowing it down, I wait for the relief, but my stomach cramps up. I bite my lips and clutch my middle, willing myself not to throw it up. Please, anything but that.
The pain eases, and I go back for a second slice. This goes in my sack.
On the floor beside the table I discover a burlap sack. After a good long argument with the knot, I withdraw a potato. A potato! I haven’t had one since I was twelve. I cup one gently and place it in the bottom of my bag, right beside the bread. My mouth fills with spit, so I allow myself a second. I’d take the whole bag if I thought I could carry it. After retying the knot, I get to my feet, and mentally prepare myself to leave.
And then I see it: a plastic two-liter bottle of Pepsi.
Pepsi!
I concentrate on breathing normally. These people have civilization. They have electricity, food, and Pepsi. Tears flood my eyes as I think of all the years I’ve spent eating rats while they had potatoes and apples and soda.
Who are they?
There’s a tumbler on the table three-quarters full of the stuff. My mouth goes dry, and I run my fingers over flaking lips. I want it. I ache for the sweetness, the rush, for all the things it represents. Is it worth it? One sip will never satisfy me, and it won’t bring back all the things I lost. But it’s the only time I’ll ever find the stuff, I’m sure of it. Tomorrow I’m back to carefully filtered ash-snow and rat, if I’m lucky.
I set my pack on the floor. With both hands I take up the cup, shut my eyes, raise it to my nose and sniff. It’s real.
I sneak a peek around, feeling as though something is egging me on, but other than the tiny LED over the sink, there’s barely any light. I listen, but I hear nothing but my own heartbeat. I make out the faint outline of living room furniture. That’s all.
I take a sip.
It’s warm, and it’s not as fizzy as I remember, but it’s incredibly sweet. It tastes like riding in a car, bright electric lights, and a mother’s love. I let it settle on my tongue, absorb it into every crevice, and I let my teeth bathe in it. When I swallow, it only takes a moment before the tears come. I set the cup down, and for a brief second I can’t let it go.
A bowlful of pears sits on the counter next to the icebox. I never did like pears, but I’ve eaten mice, so I’ll pretty much eat anything. I take one for the road, one for home, and sling my bag up over my shoulder.
The Pepsi calls to me.
The whole twenty-first century is in that cup, and I’ll never find it again. I take another sip. I’m not even sure I like that much sugary sweetness, but I need it. I down another mouthful as I carry it into the living area. Whoever lives here has a couch with cushions on it. He has a fireplace too, even though there’s no fire in it. How is it warm in here without fire?
Another sip and I narrow my eyes at the lovely, cushy couch. I doubt I’ll see anything this luxurious again. These people can drift into peaceful sleep without worrying that their screams will bring hunters. I’d be willing to bet they’re not worried they’ll have their throats slit while they lie, helplessly dreaming of fast cars and sunshine.
The bread was not enough. My limbs feel heavy, and I start to shake. The sugar should pick me up soon, if I remember correctly, but right now I don’t feel so good. My tongue feels like it’s grown double in size, and I gulp down more memories.
Shoot.
It was almost full when I found it, and now there’s less than a quarter left. I liked this place, but now I can’t ever come back. The person living here will almost surely notice the difference in what he left last night and what he finds in the morning.
I make my way back to the kitchen and practically stumble over the metal strip that divides the carpet from the tile. Kneeling down beside the table, I untie the burlap sack with shaking fingers and take a few more potatoes. If I can’t come here again, I might as well get a couple of meals out of it.
I could have had tons more meals, and instead I drank worthless soda just so I could feel like I was home again.
And I don’t.
Imagining all that lost food makes me dizzy. I stagger to my feet. No more apartments tonight. I’ll be lucky if I make it home with as little energy as I have. I take one last sip of my downfall and carefully place the cup on the table, exactly where I found it.
The living room. If I’ve sold my soul for a taste of sweetness, I’m going to take it all. Leaning on to the counter for balance, I make my way to the couch, and sink down into heaven. I rest my head against the back and try to summon another memory of my old life, but I can’t. I’m absolutely certain this is the best and the worst moment of my life. My eyes blur, and I squint as I try to focus. The side wall seems blotchy. Why? I haul myself to my feet and almost puke. I leave my pack on the floor and ghost closer.
Drawings. Now I get it. White paper and black charcoal pencils. Art was never my thing, but other students seemed to like it. I squint at one. Then another. My heart picks up, and horror roots in my chest as I take in one after the other.
Every single one of them is me.
The last one is a drawing of me sleeping against a pallet of blankets, and there’s a gag over my mouth. Whoever he is, he’s been in my home.
It’s the last thing I see before I pass out.