Выбрать главу

“You hungry now?”

In fact he was starving, but the skinned animal smoking on glowing coals was definitely a dog. Or a coyote. Or something else he refused to eat.

After he left Matt’s yard, Larry walked back up the street and into a dark grove of trees. It was nearly pitch black beneath the canopy of branches, and progress was slow. Eventually, he stumbled into the white fence that bordered Blaise’s heavily-forested property. Blaise himself was sitting on his back deck beside the green glow of a propane lantern.

“If that’s a man,” Blaise said, “identify yourself. Otherwise I’m gonna use you for target practice, don’t you know.”

“It’s me,” Larry said. He emerged from the trees into a small clearing. “I’m the only person who ever comes by.”

“Can’t be too careful. Any luck with the screenwriter?”

“Nope. You were right. He won’t share anything.”

“That’s a smart man who wants to survive.”

Only one chair stood on the back deck, and Blaise was sitting in it. Larry, hungry and exhausted, took a seat on the rough wooden slats.

“I guess there’s just one option left.”

“And you still want to go through with it,” said Blaise in his abrasive, East-coast way that could have been a statement or a question.

“I already spoke to Matt. He’s going over there tonight.”

“How much food you think there is?”

“I don’t know,” Larry said. “But he’s got five people staying there and no one seems very worried.”

“Not even the two young boys?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

“You must really be in love with this actress,” said Blaise.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re willing to starve a family of four just to get close to her.”

“They’re not going to starve. We’re taking them to an even larger supply of food.”

“How many times I gotta tell ya? This here plan is no slam dunk.”

Larry stood up and loomed over Blaise. The gnawing sensation in his gut made it hard to think clearly.

“You asked me to recruit someone,” he said. “To help carry the weapons and ammo. When I mentioned Thomas, you said fine.”

“I never said steal food from babies.”

“They’re like eight years old.”

“So you got no problem marching a couple of eight-year-old kids through thirty miles of blazing heat.”

“How else was I supposed to get them out of the house except remove their supplies?”

“You coulda asked that Matt fella to go with us. He’s been keen for a fight ever since the lights went out.”

“Matt is volatile.”

“Plus, he’s not a fancypants actress.”

“Fuck you,” said Larry.

But Blaise needed food like anyone and eventually shut his mouth about the kids.

“So I should expect you to bring them by in the morning?”

“That’s the hope,” Larry said. “Thomas doesn’t have the guts or weapons to fight Matt. He won’t have any choice.”

After he was home, Larry, by candlelight, poured another healthy scotch. He imagined their arrival at the warehouse, the great rows of groceries, Skylar’s immense gratitude, her open arms.

Larry, she whispers. How can I ever repay you?

I just wanted you to be safe. I want you to be happy.

Oh, I am. I am happy. And now I want you to feel as good as I do.

He poured himself even more scotch and climbed into bed and let the darkness wash over him.

Dark is the absence of light, said Skylar when she came up for air. But you are the light, Larry. We need you. So be good to yourself. Be good to yourself. Be good…

THIRTY-ONE

Thomas awoke violently, slick with sweat, confident he was being watched. An inexplicable interval passed where the alternate reality of his dream flickered in the shadows of the candlelit real world. Based on the dark windows, on the silence of the house, it was still sometime in the middle of the night.

In the dream he’d been in his office, bathed in the pale glow of his Mac display, trying to imagine the next scene in an epic screenplay that was nearing completion. But he sensed a stranger in the corners of his peripheral vision, waiting for Thomas to type so he could rush forward and inflict unspeakable agony upon him.

Even as the dream receded, his emotions remained. Thomas lay there feeling for all the world like he was the target of a malevolent plot.

On his left, at the distant edge of the king bed, candlelight flickered over Skylar’s sleeping form. She lay on her back, and her limbs were spread away from her torso as if she were falling from a great height. He remembered the way she had clutched his shoulder, her hot breath in his ear. It was a strange thing, this life. Sometimes it really did feel scripted, like someone behind the curtain was pulling the levers of the world to extract the maximum human drama from every scene.

He heard a sound, a rustling that might have been Skylar, except he hadn’t felt her move. Maybe Natalie or one of the boys was awake. Maybe one of them had wandered into the kitchen to get a drink of water or something to eat. Probably he should get up and investigate, but already the sound was fading from his memory and Thomas was drifting away, sitting in front of his computer again, only this time it was no computer… it was an old Underwood typewriter. The power was out and this was his only chance to save the world. He was banging away, one letter at a time, when he heard another rustling sound, this one much louder than the first and definitely not anything that had come from Skylar.

Then a hoarse, whispering curse: “Fuck!”

Thomas sat upright. He was dressed in a pair of boxers and nothing else. Maybe it was Seth. Maybe he was up looking for food. Or booze.

Thomas reached on the floor for his T-shirt.

Will you shut the fuck up?” someone whispered.

Now, his shaking hands could barely fit the shirt over his head. Ripples of fear crawled like insects up his spine. Someone was in his house. Someone who wasn’t supposed to be here. He reached under the bed for his gun.

Thomas owned the weapon for exactly this purpose, but now that he was called to use it, his limbs felt heavy. What if the intruders carried their own guns? How many were there? What were they doing?

They were here to steal food. Or water. Or whatever.

He rolled out of bed. Crept toward the door. Listened for more whispering, for any sounds at all. Were they in the kitchen? The safe room? Locking up was part of his evening routine, but had he forgotten last night?

Thomas reached the door, which was closed, and wondered what to do. Explode into the hallway and order the intruders out of his house? He didn’t want to shoot indiscriminately when he had no idea who was there. Maybe it was teenagers. A husband and wife. He turned the knob and pulled open the door, barely, just enough to peer into the hallway. It was too dark to see anything, but he could smell them, whoever they were, strangers in his house, thieves trying to take his food, trying to steal the security he had so carefully prepared.

He thought he heard them in the kitchen. That’s the first place anyone would go. No one would even know to look for the safe room. He stepped into the hallway and turned to the right. He’d taken maybe three quiet steps when he heard a voice directly behind him.

“That’s far enough,” said a man. Thomas felt the barrel of a gun press into the back of his neck. It was cold and hard and he thought he might faint. “Hand over your piece.”