Zocopalypse by Angel Lawson

our third pass when I grab his arm. “Stop! I think that’s it. That tree looks familiar.”
    He tugs on his ear. “You said that before with the stump.”
    I ignore him and point to the almost invisible path. “Follow that.”
    Wyatt takes the truck down the road. Being late summer the foliage is thick. We’re almost at the cabin before we see it. Dark wood planks and a tin roof. Three rooms total. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen/living room.
    “There’s a small carport to the side.”
    He parks and we get out, listening for a moment. It’s quiet. The good kind. I walk to the back of the house and move the fake rock. The key is inside. Just like my mom said.
    Wyatt follows me to the tiny front porch. I can see the reflection of the lake below. Looks smooth as glass. He stops me before I open the door. “Why didn’t you tell me about this place?”
    I catch his eye and to my surprise they softened just a little—betraying more emotion. Right now it’s curiosity. “I wasn’t sure I trusted you.”
    “And you do now?”
    I shrug. “Not really. I don’t know? In the last thirty-six hours I’ve had to kill my mother, run over Eaters with a truck and split one of their faces in half. I had to save your ass. I am capable, despite my size and age. I’m exhausted, and I’m too tired to deal with the semantics of trust.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “That means if you give me a reason not to trust you I have no problem handling that.”
    He nods like this makes sense (which I have no idea if it does or not. Seriously, I’m exhausted). I open the door with the key and we step inside the dark, musty cabin. The sound of scurrying feet race across the floor—just mice, hopefully. I flip the light switch. Nothing.
    “What happened to your aunt?” Wyatt asks, dropping his pack on the floor and crossing the room with his shotgun. He passes through the tiny kitchenette and nudges open the two other doors.
    “My mom’s aunt, actually. She lives in Charlotte. She’s pretty old.”
    Translation: I don’t know. Probably dead.
    “So she hasn’t been here recently?” He finally laid his gun on the small wooden table in the center of the room. I lean against the door.
    “No. I doubt anyone has been here for years. That’s why we decided to head this way. Get out of the city—go somewhere safe.”
    He seems satisfied—and tired. I offer to take the first watch and he agrees heading straight for the creaky dusty couch. “There’s a bed back there,” I say. “At least there used to be.”
    “You can have the bed. This is fine.” He pulls a sweatshirt out of his bag and makes pillow. He’s asleep in minutes.
    I sit at the hard wooden chair at the table and fish out a granola bar. I eat it slowly, watching Wyatt sleep. He snores lightly, deeply, and I wonder if I’ll ever be able to turn it on and off like he does. Shut down when it’s time—turn it on when I need to. Sure, I’m playing a good game. I killed that Eater today. I found the cabin. I’m useful—but what I really want is for the pain to stop. For the memories to disappear. I want the blank eyed look and game face that Wyatt seems to have mastered.
    Maybe, if anything, that’s something I can learn from him before we go our separate ways.

Chapter Twenty
    ~Before~
    7 Weeks Earlier
    My father arrives midway through our inventory of the medicine cabinet. Once we’re finished we’ll have to ration and figure out a schedule including the additional supplies. He hands over a bag of groceries, nothing much, mostly basics, sugar, flour…
    “What the heck is this?” I ask holding up a red can.
    “Canned milk.”
    “Milk comes in a can? It’s all…warm.”
    We add it to the table, knocking over half-full bottles of aspirin and allergy tablets. My mother’s eyes light up as much at the sight of the food as my dad.
    His face is covered with a thick mask and he wears protective clothing from his fingers to his toes. His eyes narrow when he sees our