“What’s his problem?” Taylor asked, turning to the other people at the fire.
A girl with short blond hair let out a giggle. “Fuck if we know. He just won’t shut up. I think he found some Quaaludes or something.”
When I looked back at Devon, I saw that his eyes had fallen shut. He was lying on his back with a distant smile on his lips, rocking back and forth. Taylor just shook her head and gestured me toward the fire.
Taylor made introductions.
The girl with the blond hair was Amanda. She’d been studying psychology at Gonzaga. “Big waste of time,” she said with a giggle. “People just don’t make that much sense. End of story.”
The man sitting next to her was Floyd. “Pretty Boy Floyd,” one of the others said with a laugh. That’s what they used to call him, back when he’d been making skateboarding videos. But those days were long past. “Fucked-up knee,” he explained. He rapped his knuckles against his leg and gave his head a bitter little shake. “More metal than bone.” His nose was crooked, and his cheekbones didn’t sit quite right. “I had the bad habit of landing on my face.”
Then there was Mackenzie, a former bookstore clerk with red hair and a thick beard. I had him pegged as the oldest of the bunch, placing him at about thirty. He had a gruff voice, and his laughter was a low bass rumble, subdued and guarded. Maybe it was just the pot, but Mackenzie kept looking around the room, casting nervous glances toward the doors and windows. The smile on his lips didn’t really touch his eyes.
Sabine was sitting perched between Mackenzie and the fireplace. (“Sabine Pearl-Grey,” she said with a half-mouthed smile. “That’s my stage name.”) She was a small, delicate girl with small, delicate features—porcelain-doll cheekbones and a long, thin neck. Her hair was dyed black with stripes of bright red shooting out from her scalp like bolts of lightning. Her smile was bright and gleeful. She was an artist. “Performance artist,” she said in a husky nicotine purr.
Floyd let out a laugh. “Like the take-a-shit-in-a-shot-glass type of artist.”
Sabine threw a chunk of firewood at Floyd and shook her head, the wide smile still on her lips. “Fuck no! I may occasionally yell at strangers and roll around on the sidewalk, but that’s about it. Nothing too crude. And I do charcoals, too,” she added hastily. “And poetry!”
The youngest of the bunch was Charlie, and he couldn’t have been older than seventeen. He was a skinny black kid with wire-frame glasses. His smile was tight-lipped, and his tired eyes looked just about ready to fall shut. “We found him wandering the streets, looking for his parents,” Taylor said, whispering in my ear. “He was out of town when the quarantine hit—staying with his grandparents in Portland—but his parents were here, in the city. He’s convinced they never left, but we haven’t found a single trace of them.” After a moment she added: “The boy’s a genius. Fixed my watch when it broke.” She held up her wrist, showing me a beautiful Bulova. Its crystal face was cracked, but its elegant hands still ticked off the seconds.
And then there was Devon, still lying on the floor, gently rocking back and forth. Taylor gave me an exasperated shrug. “Yeah, he’s just a fuckup,” she said. “Mac says he used to see him up at the Jiffy Lube on Division, working on cars.”
“Shut up,” Devon mumbled, the smile disappearing from his lips. “If you don’t quit talking about me like I’m not here, I’ll fucking Jiffy Lube my arm and sodomize the whole damn lot of you.”
“He doesn’t like talking pre-evacuation,” Sabine said, holding her hand next to her mouth, like that little barrier might keep Devon from hearing. “He’s got issues.”
“And he’s got the best fucking pot!” Floyd said, suddenly dropping to the ground and planting a big theatrical kiss on Devon’s forehead. Everybody laughed, Amanda nearly collapsing to the ground in hysterics.
“Speaking of, where is that shit?” Floyd asked, his voice suddenly serious. “I need another hit. I can feel the horrors starting to creep back in.”
And just like that, the laughter stopped. Amanda giggled once, but there was no levity in it this time, just nerves.
Mac started to nod violently. I couldn’t tell if he was agreeing with Floyd or if this was some type of nervous tic. His eyes once again made a circuit of the room before finally settling on Taylor. “And… and,” he rumbled, his voice strained and unsteady. “Are you sure we’re alone in here? Are you positive?”
After a moment, he continued, his voice dropping down into a low conspiratorial whisper: “Is there someone else in the house?”
The pipe went around the circle a couple of times, then Taylor grabbed Mac’s hand and coaxed him to his feet. She took him on a circuit of the house, trying to show him that we were alone. I could hear them moving through the rooms upstairs, the sound reaching me through a pleasant, drug-induced haze. It sounded like there were a lot of rooms up there. And a lot of stairs. Three stories, maybe. Four or five bedrooms.
Moving catlike, on all fours, Sabine crept over to my side and gestured toward my bags. “Can I take a look?” she asked. She started digging through my duffel, not even waiting for my permission. Laughing, she pulled out article after article of clothing—T-shirts, sweaters, jeans, and underwear—and set them in a pile on the floor. She tossed aside my copy of the AP Guide to Photojournalism. Then, finally, she reached the food. She let out a delighted yelp and started stacking cans in a little pyramid.
“Amanda!” she called, startling the blond girl out of a droop-headed daze. “Shelve the fucking pasta. We’ve got dinner right here!” She rolled several cans across the hardwood floor.
“Thank God,” Amanda sighed. Then, under her breath: “Fucking pasta. Every fucking day.” She looked up toward Sabine’s pyramid. “Got any meat… or bread?”
“Just canned meat,” I said with a sigh, watching as my store of food moved from hand to hand. Floyd was lost in a can of pork and beans, his eyes locked on the picture on the label. Mac, just back from his tour of the house, dropped to his knees at Sabine’s side and started cycling through the cans on the floor.
“And crackers!” Sabine said, lifting a box of Saltines from my bag.
“And crackers,” I confirmed. I’d meant for this food to last me a while, but I couldn’t—not in good conscience—greet their hospitality with selfish hoarding.
“Don’t worry, Dean,” Taylor said. I turned and found her standing in the doorway, surveying the room like a mother watching her children unwrap their gifts on Christmas morning. “Tonight’s dinner is on you, but we’ll pay you back.” Then, with a cryptic smile: “We look after our own.”
While Amanda and Mac made dinner, Charlie asked to see my camera.
“I want to see what kind of gear you’ve got,” he explained. It was the first time I had heard his voice, and it was stronger than I expected. I thought he’d have a weak, tentative little kid’s voice, but his words were deep, self-assured, and confident.
I nodded and passed him the camera. Devon surfaced from his stupor long enough to give the camera a distrustful glare.
“Nice,” Charlie said, turning it over in his hands. “Canon,” he noted. “Is it a pro model? Consumer? How many megapixels?”
“Eighteen,” I said. “Not quite pro, but close enough. It’ll do the job for magazine work… maybe not glossy advertising shots, but most people wouldn’t notice the difference.”
Just then, Sabine crawled over to Charlie and plucked the camera from his hands. She raised the viewfinder to her eye and started snapping shots.