“Here,” Dean said, handing the book to Ainsley. “We’ve most definitely earned it.”
Ainsley put her hand on top of the cover and gasped. Then she tenderly turned the pages, and ran a finger along the words. It was the first edition of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. A yellow bookmark fell out between the pages, and written in a flowery script was the price: $170,000. She let out a small shriek as she held the stated value in her hand.
“Oh my. No,” she whispered. “I couldn’t.”
“Money doesn’t exist. People don’t exist. That book is worth something only if it means something to you,” Darla said, and she leaned back against the floor and looked up at the dark ceiling and watched the way the candles created a dancing picture show against the wood. She closed her eyes and could still see and feel the fluttering images just beyond her reach. “Keep it safe, because we have a long way to go.”
None of them slept particularly well; each of them tossed and turned, and listened to the steady summer rain beat outside. Darla’s mind kept wandering to her son—she could only pray that he was safe. As much as it pained her, she also prayed that he didn’t miss her too badly. Teddy had attached himself to Ethan in the weeks they had spent together, and she hoped that the two of them found comfort in each other. More than anything she wanted Ethan to tell Teddy that she was coming for him. Ethan may not remember the details surrounding his capture, but he would know, in his heart, that Darla would never abandon Teddy.
Several times throughout the night, she found herself saying out loud, “Hang tight little man. I’m coming for you,” as if her voice could carry on the wind to her son’s ears. Once she had read a story of a son near death who spoke out loud a beautiful goodbye to his mother who was miles away. She woke and heard his words, as clear as if he had been standing right next to her. It was the type of supernatural bullshit that Darla would have laughed at in a different life. Now, she hoped that Teddy could hear her—wished that he would know in his heart that his momma would be there soon.
She tucked herself into a ball and tried to sleep. Deep, fatigue-ending sleep never came.
“Darla?” Ainsley whispered into the night as the candles burned down to their waxy finishes. “Are you awake?”
“Uh-uhmmm,” Darla moaned and shifted to look at Ainsley in the light. Dean snored from in the corner as if to announce that he had been able to doze off with ease.
“Someone else was here,” she said and she shoved over a pile of books. “Look.”
Darla grabbed a book and opened it. Written into the front cover of some book on berry picking, a person had written a pseudo diary along the copyright page.
“Can’t get home,” Darla read. “Hiding at Powell’s. Population dwindling. It would appear the employees closed shop early. Most people done. Few deaths, most cleared. This room felt safest. No way to tell what’s happening outside. Scared.” Then the date and initials: PZ. Darla flipped through the rest of the pages and they were blank. She put the book back down on the floor. “Huh,” she said and closed her eyes again.
“No,” Ainsley said and she pushed another book along the floor. “They wrote more.”
Darla’s shoulders slumped and a headache pounded in the middle of her forehead, but she humored Ainsley and kept reading. The diary entries were uninspired, most short choppy sentences with vague recollections. When the writer, PZ, realized there were active looters he/she stayed away from sight, sleeping in the dark. The person had written an entry for every day, sometimes multiple entries per day, dedicating a single book for each day’s writing. The defaced rare books were scattered around them, open to the title pages with PZ’s writing slanted along the white spaces.
“So, what do you notice?” Ainsley asked when Darla had finished reading the stack.
Darla stared at the pile. She flipped through them each again. Day 1. Day 2. Day 3. Day 4. Day 5. Day 6. And then—Day 7. Day 8.
Day 9 was a manifesto, a laborious rant against isolation and a fervent plea to remember the survivors of the vicious attack. There was a declaration of leaving the Rare Book Room and venturing out, despite not hearing or seeing another living being in several days.
“A day six survivor,” Darla said. She put her hands on top of the books and gave them a thoughtful pat. “Another person made it out alive.”
“Grant, Dean...this person,” Ainsley said. “And that’s just from one little area. There has to be more. Don’cha think?”
Darla nodded. “ I do.”
“Isn’t that amazing!” Ainsley’s face brightened and she pulled back all the books and began reading them again. “I mean...there are others. PZ. Paul. Patty. Peter. Penelope. It could be anybody.”
Rummaging back through the small pile of clothes, Darla found her gun and held it in her right hand; Ainsley saw her but didn’t say anything. She kept the gun against her side. After Ainsley had read the mysterious camper’s rambling and defacing notes again, she ran her hand under her nose, and that was when Darla noticed she was crying.
“Please don’t cry,” Darla said.
“You can’t tell me not to cry,” Ainsley replied and she leaned her head back against the bookshelf, holding the Walt Whitman to her chest like a shield.
“Fine. Cry. You’re right,” Darla replied and she turned away.
“Sometimes...” Ainsley started and she sniffed, “I don’t like you very much.” Then she covered her face with Whitman.
Darla watched as Ainsley sat there unmoving, her face covered, waiting for Darla to yell at her, or crawl over and make it all better—she wasn’t sure which response Ainsley was expecting. “Read me something out of your book,” Darla said finally.
Ainsley didn’t pull the book away from her body. “You want me to read you Walt Whitman?”
“Yup,” Darla tugged the sweatshirt up around her chin and straightened out against the floor to get more comfortable. “Make it good.”
She lowered the book and opened it carefully to a random page. “As the time draws nigh glooming a cloud, a dread beyond of I know not what darkens me. I shall go forth, I shall traverse the States awhile, but I cannot tell whither or how long...” she stopped. Flipped the page and then flipped back again.
“Keep going,” Darla said.
Ainsley read, “Perhaps soon some day or night while I am singing my voice will suddenly cease. O book, o chants, must all then amount to but this? Must we barely arrive at this beginning of us? And yet it is enough, o soul; o soul, we have positively appeared—that is enough.”
The candles flickered and the rain pattered. Ainsley closed the book and held it tight.
“I always hated Walt Whitman,” Darla said.
“You asked me to read it.”
“I hate anyone that people tell me I am required to like. It’s a character flaw.”
Ainsley snorted. When Darla shot her a glare, she lowered her head, still smirking. “Darla admits her flaws. It’s almost charming.”
“No,” Darla said, sitting up halfway and propping herself up on her elbows. “You buy that shit? That it doesn’t matter what the journey is or how dark and awful the world seems, because we’re all going to die, and, then he says, it’s okay. Because it was worth it just to have been born?”
Ainsley shrugged. She opened the book up and scanned the lines again. “I was a nursing student. Science and medicine are my thing. Whitman and I aren’t intimately connected. I couldn’t tell you what he means.”