eyes
on any.
Please don’t let me lay eyes on them. That’s all I need.
Callie purred and rubbed against my ankles.
“You want to know what the plan is, huh?” She probably wanted
to be fed again, but I scooped her up so she could look in the mirror too. “I
wish I knew, but we need to figure it out soon. First, breakfast.”
My hair and face could wait. Maybe I wouldn’t even brush my
hair. Or my teeth. Who would know if I did or didn’t?
I was hungry, and though the idea of eating canned or MRE
meals made me nauseous, they were better than nothing.
A can of food and some more water and Callie became an
affectionate cat, purring and following me around. The rest of the time she had
very little to do with me unless I forced her to snuggle. She didn’t have a
choice. I needed snuggles.
I was about to open a can of peaches, but stopped before
turning the crank of the hand-operated can opener. A box of rainbow
deliciousness peeked out from one of the opened cupboards . Poptarts.
No friggin’ way!
Poptarts lasted forever. All the artificial flavors and
additives meant they could survive nearly anything, which, as I’d found myself
in the middle of a nightmare apocalypse, came in handy.
It didn’t take much to open the box and pluck out one of
four silver packages. A brand new box—such joy. Eight pop tarts for me!
I slid to the floor right there with my back against the
counter and shoved almost half a pop tart in my mouth. Strawberry. Sprinkles. Gooey
goodness. It had been forever since I’d tasted something so sweet. It nearly
caused my eyes to roll into the back of my head and I almost forgot my troubles
for a moment.
Four pop tarts later, I stood up and dusted off my butt.
Yes, life still sucked. Yes, I was still alone without a clue as to what had
happened to make it that way. But one thing was for certain: staying in the
apartment forever, as I had planned to do the night before, would not change my
situation. Maybe I wasn’t a brave or strong person—physically or mentally—but I
could do something. What other choice was there really?
I needed a battery. I may need a new phone.
Because finding out where Dad went had become priority
number one.
A few unscathed cars remained in the apartment complex
parking lot and somewhere there had to be keys. The apartment I had spent the
night in turned up nothing, not even in Marin Peterson’s purse, though the
unused chapstick, roll of lifesavers, and sunglasses might be useful. Her cell
phone had some battery life in it, but no bars. It also had a pass code to open
it, and after spending several minutes punching in random numbers, it died and
became a useless piece of junk. Go figure.
She also had a pair of really nice Doc Martens boots in my
size—new and in the original box. I would have preferred black, but the dark red
would do. It sure beat my pair of worn out Toms—not practical for walking long
distances even if they were extremely comfortable.
Stealing wasn’t my thing, along with school and heights, but
leaving perfectly good items to gather dust seemed wasteful. Recycle and reuse
was a pretty good practice to adopt, especially now. Besides, these were Doc
Martens. Anyone with a sense of wicked-cool style would have done the same
thing. This was a smart move. Even Marin Peterson would have to agree with me.
But I needed keys! I left Callie, made sure the door
remained unlocked, and went hunting in the adjoining apartments. Every time I
stood outside an unlocked apartment, I gave a mental chant no dead bodies,
no dead bodies, before pushing open the door. So far, the chant had seemed
to work.
I rummaged through purses, backpacks, and drawers and
searched closets and boxes. A set of keys hung on a hook in one guy’s kitchen,
but none of the keys looked like they belonged to a vehicle–more like house
keys. I pocketed them in case I happened to be wrong. How did one person come
to have so many random keys? Either he was the super, or
on any.
Please don’t let me lay eyes on them. That’s all I need.
Callie purred and rubbed against my ankles.
“You want to know what the plan is, huh?” She probably wanted
to be fed again, but I scooped her up so she could look in the mirror too. “I
wish I knew, but we need to figure it out soon. First, breakfast.”
My hair and face could wait. Maybe I wouldn’t even brush my
hair. Or my teeth. Who would know if I did or didn’t?
I was hungry, and though the idea of eating canned or MRE
meals made me nauseous, they were better than nothing.
A can of food and some more water and Callie became an
affectionate cat, purring and following me around. The rest of the time she had
very little to do with me unless I forced her to snuggle. She didn’t have a
choice. I needed snuggles.
I was about to open a can of peaches, but stopped before
turning the crank of the hand-operated can opener. A box of rainbow
deliciousness peeked out from one of the opened cupboards . Poptarts.
No friggin’ way!
Poptarts lasted forever. All the artificial flavors and
additives meant they could survive nearly anything, which, as I’d found myself
in the middle of a nightmare apocalypse, came in handy.
It didn’t take much to open the box and pluck out one of
four silver packages. A brand new box—such joy. Eight pop tarts for me!
I slid to the floor right there with my back against the
counter and shoved almost half a pop tart in my mouth. Strawberry. Sprinkles. Gooey
goodness. It had been forever since I’d tasted something so sweet. It nearly
caused my eyes to roll into the back of my head and I almost forgot my troubles
for a moment.
Four pop tarts later, I stood up and dusted off my butt.
Yes, life still sucked. Yes, I was still alone without a clue as to what had
happened to make it that way. But one thing was for certain: staying in the
apartment forever, as I had planned to do the night before, would not change my
situation. Maybe I wasn’t a brave or strong person—physically or mentally—but I
could do something. What other choice was there really?
I needed a battery. I may need a new phone.
Because finding out where Dad went had become priority
number one.
A few unscathed cars remained in the apartment complex
parking lot and somewhere there had to be keys. The apartment I had spent the
night in turned up nothing, not even in Marin Peterson’s purse, though the
unused chapstick, roll of lifesavers, and sunglasses might be useful. Her cell
phone had some battery life in it, but no bars. It also had a pass code to open
it, and after spending several minutes punching in random numbers, it died and
became a useless piece of junk. Go figure.
She also had a pair of really nice Doc Martens boots in my
size—new and in the original box. I would have preferred black, but the dark red
would do. It sure beat my pair of worn out Toms—not practical for walking long
distances even if they were extremely comfortable.
Stealing wasn’t my thing, along with school and heights, but
leaving perfectly good items to gather dust seemed wasteful. Recycle and reuse
was a pretty good practice to adopt, especially now. Besides, these were Doc
Martens. Anyone with a sense of wicked-cool style would have done the same
thing. This was a smart move. Even Marin Peterson would have to agree with me.
But I needed keys! I left Callie, made sure the door
remained unlocked, and went hunting in the adjoining apartments. Every time I
stood outside an unlocked apartment, I gave a mental chant no dead bodies,
no dead bodies, before pushing open the door. So far, the chant had seemed
to work.
I rummaged through purses, backpacks, and drawers and
searched closets and boxes. A set of keys hung on a hook in one guy’s kitchen,
but none of the keys looked like they belonged to a vehicle–more like house
keys. I pocketed them in case I happened to be wrong. How did one person come
to have so many random keys? Either he was the super, or
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