running, too, helping us up
.
The night. So dark. Chilly. My family simply manic shadows alongside me
.
Stopping at a hole in the ground. Not a hole. A hatch
.
Dad pushing us, making us climb down. Dad staying up on top
.
Me screaming for Cocoa. Dad promising to find her. Me going with the others. Down into a room. Stairs. So many stairs
.
Descending. Descending. Descending
.
To the silver door. A gaping mouth wanting to swallow us
.
Waiting. Waiting. Precious minutes ticking
.
Too much time
.
Mom leading us through the silver door
.
Dad returning
.
Me screaming
.
Silver door closing. Loud. Reverberating in my head
.
Gram gone
.
Eddy gone
.
World? Gone
.
That wasn’t all of it. My mind censored out the worst part. The part where I was selfish. The part where I would do anything to get what I wanted. Even if it meant leaving my brother out of our only hope for survival. Our sanctuary.
My dad was the type of dad who spent a billion dollars on that sanctuary so his family could survive a nuclear attack. That should have been enough for most people.
Problem was I had never been most kind of people.
I would have rather had a dad with change jingling in his pocket; one who would have spent the last forty minutes of the world raking leaves for his kids to jump in, so that they perished in one loud, bright instant, giggles still bubbling up from their bellies, never suspecting a thing.
Yeah, well. Tough luck, rich boy.
M Y DREAMS THAT NIGHT, LIKE SO MANY OTHER NIGHTS, WERE of food. Cheeseburgers, loaded with bacon and mayo and ketchup. Seasoned curly fries, greasy and dripping in mustard. Milk shakes, thick slices of strawberry cheesecake, hot fudge sundaes.
When I woke up, my pillow was wet with drool and my stomach growled. I hated waking up like that, immediately reminded of our pathetic food situation.
It hadn’t always been bad. In the beginning we had plenty to eat. An enormous open room near the hydroponics housed the poultry and livestock. Without Eddy to do the job, caring for them fell to me. We had five Holsteins, all with suckling calves. With their soft fur, slippery noses, and sandpaper tongues, the calves were so loveable that it helped me not miss Cocoa so much.
Their pen was a smaller version of a corral you’d see on a ranch. Smelled like one as well. Every day, wishing Icould worm my way out of it, I grudgingly held my breath as I scooped up their manure and hauled it to one of the incinerators. I gave the animals water, and then carried grain by bucketfuls to their trough. The trough sat near a water tank that I filled with a hose from a nearby spigot.
The chickens were not as fun as the cows. I sprinkled their corn, brought clean water, and rushed out of the henhouse. I hated the putrid stench of chicken crap. Most days I gathered eggs. Those were a treat, especially when Mom made them into cheese omelets.
One entire room of the warehouse was devoted to feed for the animals. Should it dwindle, Dad explained, we would butcher the cows and make do without milk and the cheese and butter that Mom made. Even though it would mean less shoveling for me, I chose not to think about that day, counting on the feed to last.
Between the dairy and poultry products, produce from the garden, and freezers full of meat, we ate well.
For the first seven months.
The morning it all changed started out like any other. Life had become routine, almost like we’d always lived in the Compound.
With an orange wheelbarrow, I hauled a new bag of feed out of the storeroom and poured it into the cows’ trough. They dug in with gusto as usual, the calves nursing as their mothers chewed, their crunching loud. The chickens were ecstatic when I fed them, their ruffling feathers and cackling driving me nuts.
The next day I went to feed them. I was puzzled. Neitherthe chickens nor cows touched the food I gave them. The cows dripped saliva while the calves suckled. I went to get Dad.
He wasn’t that up on hanging
.
The night. So dark. Chilly. My family simply manic shadows alongside me
.
Stopping at a hole in the ground. Not a hole. A hatch
.
Dad pushing us, making us climb down. Dad staying up on top
.
Me screaming for Cocoa. Dad promising to find her. Me going with the others. Down into a room. Stairs. So many stairs
.
Descending. Descending. Descending
.
To the silver door. A gaping mouth wanting to swallow us
.
Waiting. Waiting. Precious minutes ticking
.
Too much time
.
Mom leading us through the silver door
.
Dad returning
.
Me screaming
.
Silver door closing. Loud. Reverberating in my head
.
Gram gone
.
Eddy gone
.
World? Gone
.
That wasn’t all of it. My mind censored out the worst part. The part where I was selfish. The part where I would do anything to get what I wanted. Even if it meant leaving my brother out of our only hope for survival. Our sanctuary.
My dad was the type of dad who spent a billion dollars on that sanctuary so his family could survive a nuclear attack. That should have been enough for most people.
Problem was I had never been most kind of people.
I would have rather had a dad with change jingling in his pocket; one who would have spent the last forty minutes of the world raking leaves for his kids to jump in, so that they perished in one loud, bright instant, giggles still bubbling up from their bellies, never suspecting a thing.
Yeah, well. Tough luck, rich boy.
M Y DREAMS THAT NIGHT, LIKE SO MANY OTHER NIGHTS, WERE of food. Cheeseburgers, loaded with bacon and mayo and ketchup. Seasoned curly fries, greasy and dripping in mustard. Milk shakes, thick slices of strawberry cheesecake, hot fudge sundaes.
When I woke up, my pillow was wet with drool and my stomach growled. I hated waking up like that, immediately reminded of our pathetic food situation.
It hadn’t always been bad. In the beginning we had plenty to eat. An enormous open room near the hydroponics housed the poultry and livestock. Without Eddy to do the job, caring for them fell to me. We had five Holsteins, all with suckling calves. With their soft fur, slippery noses, and sandpaper tongues, the calves were so loveable that it helped me not miss Cocoa so much.
Their pen was a smaller version of a corral you’d see on a ranch. Smelled like one as well. Every day, wishing Icould worm my way out of it, I grudgingly held my breath as I scooped up their manure and hauled it to one of the incinerators. I gave the animals water, and then carried grain by bucketfuls to their trough. The trough sat near a water tank that I filled with a hose from a nearby spigot.
The chickens were not as fun as the cows. I sprinkled their corn, brought clean water, and rushed out of the henhouse. I hated the putrid stench of chicken crap. Most days I gathered eggs. Those were a treat, especially when Mom made them into cheese omelets.
One entire room of the warehouse was devoted to feed for the animals. Should it dwindle, Dad explained, we would butcher the cows and make do without milk and the cheese and butter that Mom made. Even though it would mean less shoveling for me, I chose not to think about that day, counting on the feed to last.
Between the dairy and poultry products, produce from the garden, and freezers full of meat, we ate well.
For the first seven months.
The morning it all changed started out like any other. Life had become routine, almost like we’d always lived in the Compound.
With an orange wheelbarrow, I hauled a new bag of feed out of the storeroom and poured it into the cows’ trough. They dug in with gusto as usual, the calves nursing as their mothers chewed, their crunching loud. The chickens were ecstatic when I fed them, their ruffling feathers and cackling driving me nuts.
The next day I went to feed them. I was puzzled. Neitherthe chickens nor cows touched the food I gave them. The cows dripped saliva while the calves suckled. I went to get Dad.
He wasn’t that up on hanging
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