I’ve been trying to put all this out of my mind, pretend like it isn’t happening. The whole reason we came here is to survive, but so far the warehouse seems like nothing but death. This is a place I’m supposed to take my children?
In the morning, Billy and Miguel and Tim want to fire at the sniper to provide cover for a second, stealth group. Seth and Thomas prefer to make contact with the sniper first, like try to negotiate a peaceful approach. Neither of these options sound very good to me. I don’t think there’s any way we’ll get inside the warehouse alive.
Larry spent much of this discussion rubbing his ears, or staring at the ceiling, which is strange because typically he can’t take his eyes off Skylar. I’m beginning to wonder if something is wrong with him. What if I’m not alone? What if Larry hears it too, this ringing? I would ask him about it if he weren’t so creepy, and if I weren’t so frightened.
I never heard any ringing before all this, which makes me wonder if the pulse affected my mind somehow. Don’t our bodies use electricity to send signals to and from the brain? Since the pulse broke all the electrical things, does that mean it broke me, too?
As the night wore on, I wondered if these men couldn’t agree on a plan because none of them wanted to put themselves in harm’s way. And men are like that. All talk talk talk. You brag about your guns, about how tough you are, but unless you’re a soldier with field expertise, you don’t know what real battle is like. It makes you sound ridiculous. And if you’re reading this, and you’re one of those Second Amendment wackos, then yes, I’m talking to you.
I haven’t bathed in a week. I’m grimy and sweaty and I’m sure I smell like a wild animal. I’m sure we all do, but no one seems to notice anymore.
Eventually a plan was agreed upon: In the morning, Billy will approach the building from the front, where the crowd is, and attempt to reason with the guards. He believes they’ll relent if faced with a real threat.
“Let’s give them one chance to back down,” Billy told us. “If he declines, we regroup behind the warehouse and mount an assault.”
Even though no one asked my opinion, I explained the boys would go nowhere near the warehouse until we know for sure it’s safe. To my relief, the men agreed. They plan to leave the boys with Skylar and me deep in the trees until the situation is stable.
I’m so happy when the boys are asleep, because I can’t bear for them to endure this suffering. I’m afraid they are going to be scarred for life.
But if tomorrow isn’t the end, maybe those scars are what they’ll need to survive.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The sun was still hidden by housetops when they stepped out Tim’s front door. The smoke in the sky was thicker than Thomas had ever seen it and the air carried an awful chemical odor. Twelve hours of walking in the heat had taken a toll on him, on all of them, but after a few hours of sleep his body felt halfway normal again.
His mind did not.
The warehouse, Tim explained, was about two miles away. They walked past empty farmland and then turned south onto a narrow, two-lane blacktop that took them along a lone row of houses. Ahead, a dark black cloud climbed toward the sky. To Thomas it looked like a massive, approaching tornado.
“What happened there?” he asked.
“Tire chipping plant,” said Miguel. “My friend who works there told me to take the family and run if the place ever caught fire.”
“I have a feeling we’ll be on the move soon,” Billy said ominously. “Warehouse or no warehouse.”
As they approached the last house in the row, Thomas saw someone had scrawled a message with black spray paint on the broken and crooked garage door:
Then they turned northeast, where a loose and continuous group of walkers seemed to be headed for the warehouse. The building was so tall Thomas could already see the white shape of it above the tree line. A few minutes later they departed the highway and turned north, except for Billy, who went on toward the warehouse entrance. After another quarter mile or so, a grove of trees rose up beside the road.
“This is where we’re going in,” said Tim. “We’ll stay well back until we figure out where the sniper is today. He’s difficult to spot.”
Eventually Tim stopped in a small clearing, shaped like an oval, smoldering with smoke-dimmed sunlight.
“We’ll wait here for Billy,” he said and stood next to Miguel.
Which sounded like an innocent and simple task, but soon the twins’ eyes looked feral and they shifted restlessly on their feet. Natalie bit her nails. Larry seemed captivated by the rolling clouds of smoke. Skylar looked lost, as if she had disconnected from reality. Seth watched the warehouse with the precision of a military veteran.
The murmuring of the crowd floated toward them. Thomas found himself wondering, if real life was a script, how he might write these final few scenes. Because after everything that had happened, like traveling to Tulsa and back, like the theft of his food supplies, after yesterday’s journey to Melissa, it was obvious the end was near. They would gain access to the warehouse or they wouldn’t. There would be food and water or there wouldn’t. But whatever happened over the next couple of scenes would probably decide the outcome. And in this case there was no studio executive ready to impose a happy ending. No profit to be made or stakeholders to please. Which meant this story was free to reach the conclusion it deserved. Every film, after all, was a question answered by its ending. If you wanted to write something important, something true, you were obligated to deliver honesty… even if the truth left moviegoers feeling devastated. Even if your most endearing characters didn’t survive.
Even if you were the kind of writer who could never be honest with himself.
“Dad,” Brandon eventually said. “I don’t feel so good.”
“Me, either,” said Ben. “My stomach is yucky and I’m kinda dizzy.”
“Hold on,” Natalie whispered. “I think someone may be coming.”
“You’re right,” Tim said. “There may be a patrol in the trees.”
Tim was looking in exactly the opposite direction from where they had parted ways with Billy, which meant it probably wasn’t him.
Eventually, Thomas heard what sounded like steps crunching through leaves and twigs. Was it a warehouse guard? Would he fire at them? How would a bullet feel when it tore into you? As a screenwriter Thomas had never written the interior suffering of his characters. Those details were left to a director and his actors.
The unknown person wasn’t trying to be quiet, and soon they realized he was a lone refugee. Tim put up his hand and called out to him.
“You there!” he said. “What’s your business here?”
“Help me,” said the man. “I need help.”
Tim crept forward with his weapon at the ready and motioned for the rest of them to stay back.
“If you need help,” Tim said, “come this way with your hands in the air.”
“Please,” said the man. “I was supposed to be back days ago, but there was trouble at Marie’s. Anthony knows me. I’m Jimmy.”
Eventually the man was close enough that Thomas could see he’d been beaten and his arms haphazardly bandaged.
“What do you mean?” Tim asked. “Why were you supposed to come back here?”
“Do you guys not work in the warehouse?”
“No,” said Tim. “We’re here to get inside. Where the food is.”
“We did the same thing you’re doing,” Jimmy croaked, obviously in pain. “We came here with guns and fought our way in.”