At some level, everyone shared Phoebe’s reluctance to meet eyes—even if you had the power you might not use it first. Social interaction meant constant tension, with every encounter playing out like a scene from a spaghetti western: gunslingers facing off, evaluating their chances and assessing their own prowess against the quickness of the other.
Chad kept up a constant mental chant whenever he encountered other people: “Die, die, die, die, die.” He vigilantly maintained the refrain as he glanced quickly at faces trying to read expressions and evaluate intention. He couldn’t actually recall the last time he’d looked someone in the eyes without watching them drop dead. But he harbored no regrets about his actions. How could he? He had to assume that everyone did the same. Except Phoebe.
The longevity of this group, holed up in an industrial basement, surprised Chad. He even began to develop a kind of faith in the vision. Peter, the de-facto leader, wielded the power of conviction, a belief that humanity could rise to even this challenge. Given the right set of tools, people could learn to live cooperatively and happily again. Chad might never fully relax and find joy in the presence of others, but Peter’s confidence spread through the group like a contagion. The seven of them had sheltered in the basement of the old factory for almost three weeks and no one had died. When conversations started to turn in the direction of argument, someone would ask to ‘tie-up’—and everyone complied, no question.
Just the act of wrapping a bandana around his head, calmed Chad’s nerves. He sensed the same from all of them. Even when an argument ensued, they felt secure. They rediscovered that disagreements could be productive and that flaring tempers didn’t inevitably end in death. It almost felt normal again, despite the fact that they were all standing around blindfolded.
So the group held together. They cooperated. They improved the space and made it comfortable. Chad showed them all how to frame a wall and they built out rooms and improvised a heating and ventilation system. Chad felt productive, even respected. He applied what he’d learned over the years of manual labor, jumping from job to job, picking up one skill after another. He’d always been a jack-of-all-trades and now that diversity of skills paid real dividends. He added value. He was doing something.
Shelly would have been proud.
It felt almost like family. They ate meals together. They built things. They went out scouting and scavenging. They even played music on absurdly crude, homemade instruments. Only a couple of them could really sing but they all tried. And they laughed. It felt so good to laugh! The camaraderie just kept growing and, even if he couldn’t quite trust them, Chad started bonding with the others. He almost felt safe.
Then they lost Scott.
Chad couldn’t vouch for Sara’s innocence, Anya’s suspicions seemed perfectly reasonable—the woman had arrived directly on the heels of Scott’s death. But he’d argued for the newcomer’s inclusion anyway; he couldn’t condone the hypocrisy of barring entry into their tribe out of fear alone. Every one of them had been offered that chance, they couldn’t deny Sara the same opportunity. Welcoming anyone new meant risk, but he had to trust the system. The processes they cultivated, the culture they developed—they’d built it up not only in the face of danger but specifically to withstand it. Chad doubted their rites and rituals could completely protect them, but he knew with certainty that the only way to improve their little society was to test it.
So far, one night down, everything seemed okay.
When Chad and Phoebe first arrived, rats and mice pervaded the basement but over the previous weeks he’d closed up several small holes that provided access points for rodents. He created a morning ritual, checking all the windows, doors, closets, and dark corners for signs of intruders—both human and animal. It seemed to be working: he hadn’t seen any fresh droppings in at least three days.
About halfway through his morning rounds, Chad turned a corner and saw the body. Was someone sick? Hurt? It looked like they were wearing Phoebe’s coat. Who would have taken Phoebe’s coat? And her scarf.
His brain refused to process and he stood like a statue. After a few moments or minutes of hours, as if in a horrible sequel to his dream, he ran to where Phoebe lay sprawled on the floor. He pawed her skin and shook her body in panic and bewilderment until a terrible, cold loneliness spread through him. His daughter lay dead in his arms.
“Nooooo!” The long dog-like keening engulfed him, echoing through the emptiness that hollowed his chest. He didn’t realize that he was making the sound until he heard people running towards him.
His body flooded with rage.
“Who did this?!!” He screamed as one face after another appeared before him.
“Chad, we don’t even know what happened.” Peter’s voice sounded distant and dim. Of course he knew what happened—somebody had killed his daughter.
“I know she’s dead!” Chad choked on his own voice. The faces surrounded him now: Peter, Anya, Derek, Sara, Ray. “And I know one of you killed her!”
ANYA
This new woman, Sara, was a time bomb—a Trojan horse preparing to unleash destruction on their small fortress—but no one else could see it. Anya told them they couldn’t trust the newcomer. A stranger shows up just minutes after Scott’s death? Come on! But even Derek, who’d watched Scott die, only scoffed at her.
“Maybe that says more about you than it does about her.” And maybe it did, maybe it said that she wasn’t a goddamn fool.
Some wandering gang ambushed Scott and Derek while they were scavenging an old supermarket. Sara’s gang, Anya knew, although Derek couldn’t offer any details. He hadn’t even looked at the killer’s faces.
Scott’s absence hit Anya in waves. Death itself had become so mundane that shock and outrage were no longer automatic. Everybody died—any one of them might fall at any moment—this had become the visceral reality of their daily lives. Like the others, she took the news as a simple matter of fact, but as the day wore on a bitterness grew inside her. Scott had been her partner, her confidante, her only true friend in this new world. Now he was gone. And Derek hadn’t even given his killer a second glance.
Then, with the decision on whether or not to welcome the stranger in the balance, Phoebe, her only female compatriot, voted against caution. She knew that the group would probably have admitted the new woman regardless, but Anya was hurt and angry that Phoebe hadn’t supported her position. In the weeks since the girl’s arrival, Anya had welcomed her, comforted her, shown her solidarity—as a woman, a friend, and a survivor. They’d forged a tenuous connection—a nascent sisterhood in a world filled with mistrust and death—but Phoebe’s ‘aye’ crushed all that in an instant.
Anya felt certain that Sara was part of the gang that murdered Scott. She’d been sent along to see if there were any others. Now the newcomer had infiltrated their small oasis and stood poised to execute her plan, whatever it might be. And Anya stood alone against her.
Anya had never felt safer than she had with Scott, despite the fact that they’d met during what was surely the Apocalypse. But Scott was gone. She had no one to trust except herself. At least she could say that much now—she knew she could survive and protect herself even without her partner. This hadn’t always been true. Ironically, she’d only found the courage to stand on her own after the whole of civilization collapsed. Before the world fell apart, she’d never thought herself strong enough to feel secure.
Anya spent her childhood in a single wing of a mansion, or maybe it was a castle, outside of Moscow. Her family called it “The Cottage.” Her early life blurred into mush, not because of the years that had passed, but from the monotony of endless days alone in large sterile rooms. Her only company had been the stoic house staff that continually straightened the furniture she displaced while adventuring in fantasy worlds. Her mother, in random fits of guilt, provided sporadic reprieve with frantic shopping sprees at empty malls. Her fondest memory of that time was of being pinned against her seat, engulfed by the engine noise of the low, red, sports-car as her mother accelerated. She imagined herself a cosmonaut rocketing into space.