“Ho there, girl,” Randy says to her. “Ho there now, it’s just family, is all.” I’m always surprised at just how low his voice is. He’s such a thin guy, just bones clattering around. But if you heard his voice, you’d think it came from a big work horse of a man. It’s so low, so cavernous. It doesn’t match his face either. I don’t know what happened to him, but one side of his head is crooked like he got stepped on by a giant. Randy the Vandal, or Vandy, we call him that sometimes, or some of us do, he’s also got strange hair. He cuts it himself, but he’s got so many cow licks that his hair is just as lopsided as his face. It sticks out every which way like a messy bird’s nest. He has big teeth too. They’re straight and white and everything, but just a bit big. If I were being cruel, I’d say Randal the Vandal has the teeth of a horse. If I were being real cruel, I’d say mule. His eyes are deep green, though, like emeralds, is how Artemis describes them. He might be kind of ugly, but those eyes make all the girls smile. Randy’s our scavenger. He travels all around and meets new people and trades with them and brings stuff back. So he’s exotic and all the girls love that. My best friend, Artemis, says she’s going to let him kiss her next time he comes, so that will be something new to hear about. Anything new around her is pretty exciting.
I haven’t seen Vandy in like, I don’t know, six, seven months? I mean, I like everyone here at the Homestead, they’re all my family, basically, but NEW people. That’s really something! Not only that, but Randal the Vandal—did I mention that was what he named himself?—Randal is one of those genuinely nice people. I’m sure he can be real mean if he has to, but most of the time, he’s all smiles and jokes and winks and handshakes. He’s one of those people that say, “Glad to see you!” and you believe it. I guess you need to be that way out there. Otherwise how could you trade with anyone? Who would trust you? It’s always so nice to see Randal. Usually, he comes for a couple days and then he’s gone for months. You never know when Randal the Vandal is going to show up. Not only that, but it’s not a safe job he does. There’s a lot of bad people out there, a lot of wild ones. I don’t want to get morbid, but every time he leaves, there’s always a part of me that thinks, well, nice knowing you, Randy.
“Where’s Eric?” he asks. He’s looking around and then I notice there’s something different. He’s not smiling.
“He’s up at the lake,” Franky says. He’s taken Tangerine’s halter. He seems to notice something is wrong too. “What’s going on?”
Randal turns away from him and then he’s looking right at me with those green eyes. “Go get your father for me, will you?”
I frown. Any other time, I would say something, but I can sense something is seriously wrong. I’ve never seen Randy so serious. I feel a chill down my back that runs all the way to my legs.
I don’t look back as I turn around and begin to run.
4
While I’m running up to the lake, let’s make something clear.
Eric is not my father. I already told you my parents are dead, remember? They died a long time ago. The Worm took them like so many other people. My parents were born in one of the cities that are now just rusting, burned skeletons scattered across the landscape. I don’t even remember my father. Not a single image. Not even a feeling. But Eric is NOT my Dad. Everyone knows that. It’s obvious.
For one, I’m black and he’s white. I’ve got kinky, springy hair that is a pain and he has easy, straight black hair. He’s got blue eyes, I’ve got brown eyes. He tells people what they should do and I don’t hardly talk. We are not alike.
Also, he’s too young to be my father. He’s not even thirty yet and I’m eighteen. Or nineteen. Or seventeen. We’re not sure because I don’t exactly remember my birthday and Eric tells me that when we first met, I didn’t always give the same number when he asked me how old I was. So we’re not sure.
Ever since we first met, Eric and I have been friends. We’re friends. He might be older than me, but that doesn’t make him my father. I might have lived with him my whole life since I was a girl and he has taught me most everything I know and Eric and I have a long history together, but he is my friend.
He is not my father.
That is something that has to be said.
5
Something is wrong. Randal has brought bad news. My heart is beating so fast as I run, and not from the running. I could probably run for two hours before my heart started beating like this. No. It’s the excitement and the fear. Usually, Randal the Vandal comes back and he makes a big show of it, throwing up his arms, telling jokes, hugging people, kissing all the girls, even Beth, who’s so old, she has a hard time walking. To see him come in and without so much as a smile ask for Eric is really strange. Something is wrong and Eric has to know.
I go shooting through the pine trees and decide to take a shortcut through the forest. I leap off the path and go cutting through the forest, ducking under branches and jumping over logs. I’m nimble enough to avoid the patches of snow that remain from winter. I shoot through the forest like an arrow. It’s easy for me. I’m like this. Super fast. Eric says that I move like a deer in the forest. I call myself Kestrel because it’s a tiny little hawk that survives by being faster than the little birds that it catches. I’m like that. I’m small but so quick, you won’t even know I’m there before it’s too late. It’s no problem for me to run like this. Seriously, I could do this all day. All. Day.
I jump back on the path as it curves around and then head uphill where it levels off on the final approach to the lake. Eric went up there this morning to scout for logs. He likes to go back up to the lake, I don’t know why. Maybe because we used to live up there. Before we moved to the Homestead. For the first couple years we lived on the island. I don’t remember much about that time. It’s like my life started at the Homestead. But I do remember long, cold nights. I remember being hungry, but refusing to cry. And I remember Lucia.
That was a long time ago.
I come out of the woods and suddenly there’s the lake with the little island in the middle where we used to live. I stutter to a stop and look over the waters, lead gray on this cloudy, cold spring day. The island is like a green emerald on a pewter dish. Sometimes in the summer I swim out to it, go back to the hut that we built that first year. I look at the dirt floor, the cast iron stove that Eric had to build a wooden raft to float to the island. Back then there were still zombies. Back then you couldn’t sleep without worrying one might find you and you’d wake up screaming as it ripped you apart. Living on the island was very difficult but we slept well knowing the zombies couldn’t get to us, huddled together like puppies for warmth. I remember the smell of Lucia next to me and how sometimes Eric would reach out to touch my arm, gently, just to be sure I was still there.
But I should focus. Something is wrong and Eric should know about it as soon as possible. I look around and listen. There’s a chickadee somewhere going chick a dee dee dee. I smell the pine needles and the air is heavy with the humidity from the lake. The water is lapping softly against the bank, driven by the slight breeze in the air. I listen. I hear my own breathing. My heart beats, still thumping from the run and the excitement. The quiet and stillness extends like it’s laying down over the landscape, a phantasm.