Andrew

THE NEXT DAY AROUND LUNCHTIME, THE NOMADS and Jamie and the others came out and said they hadn’t found anything except for some leftover food. Then they went right back in to keep searching.

Waiting in this parking lot is driving me crazy. Fort Caroline or the Keys—or both—could be getting closer every day, and we still aren’t moving toward our own goal of getting Amy and Henri-Two to Bethesda.

Or toward figuring out what Jamie and I are going to do. We could go back to the cabin, yes, but what about everyone else? We’d be leaving behind people we’ve grown to care about.

I’m starting to worry about Jamie. He’s gotten so guarded and anxious.

He was shot by the same people who are actively hunting us now, so I get where that fear and paranoia come from. But it isn’t like him. At least not like the Jamie I fell in love with. These people are helping us, so why wouldn’t he want to share antibiotics with them? We know they’re trustworthy—they didn’t turn us in to Hickey and the others. And they sought us out and decided to help us.

“Would you mind helping me distract her?” Daphne has Henri-Two in her arms while Amy is trying to take a nap. Henri-Two has been teething and it’s keeping her up most of the night—and therefore also keeping Amy up. I’ve been up, too, but that has more to do with the pain in my arm than Henri-Two.

Taylor, who has been sitting quietly next to me with the Kid, gets up and grabs a blanket, laying it out beside me. I motion for Daphne to put Henri-Two down. The muscles in my shoulder aren’t as sore as they were a few days ago, but there’s no way I can pick up Henri-Two and hold her for long. If she tries to crawl away from me, I can snatch her back or call Daphne over for help.

Daphne sets her down on the blanket and goes to get teething toys. I try my best to distract Henri-Two with my good arm, hiding a wince as the muscles in my bad one radiate pain. I lie on my back, and she begins playfully batting at my face.

“Yeah, girl,” I say. “I know we need to get back on the road, but how can we when I’m like this and you’re up all night yelling at your mom that your teeth hurt?”

She makes a series of squeals in return.

“Great point.”

“She’s good at those.” Daphne sits down with some toys and a handheld fan and starts fanning herself.

“You okay?”

“Just sore from sleeping on asphalt,” she says. “And tired from the same.”

“Ditto.”

“Excuse me?”

I look up to see a thin girl with dark brown skin who looks to be about Cara’s age—a couple of years older than Jamie and me. Next to her is a younger Black boy who looks like he’s around the same age as Taylor. And also like he does not want to be here.

“Hey,” I say.

“I’m Niki,” she says. “This is my brother, Jamar.” Jamar scolds Niki under his breath and she turns to glare at him. I should have seen the resemblance immediately. Niki’s hair is shorter than Jamar’s—Niki’s cut as short as possible with scissors, while Jamar’s looks like a grown-out fade he’s stopped upkeep on—but they have the same nose, and Jamar’s ears stick out slightly more than Niki’s, hinting that she grew into hers like he’ll one day grow into his.

Niki continues. “There aren’t many kids in our group around Jamar’s age . . .” She turns her attention to Taylor. “I was hoping the two of you could maybe hang out? If you want?”

Taylor looks at us, almost as if she’s about to ask permission, but then realizes she doesn’t need to and nods. “Sure.” The Kid looks up at her as she stands.

“Want to hang with us, Kid?” I ask.

Jamar’s eyes cloud and he says, “Uh . . .”

“Oh, no, not you.” I point at the Kid. “His name is the Kid. Kid, meet Jamar.”

“Hi,” says the Kid.

Taylor starts to walk away, then turns back to see if Jamar is coming. He gives his sister one final embarrassed look of contempt before he and Taylor walk off to stand by a tree and talk.

“How about you?” I ask. “Want to hang with a baby, the Kid, an alligator attack victim, and a romance novelist? We’re thinking about walking into a bar later, seeing what happens.”

She laughs and sits down with us. I notice her nails are painted but chipped. The color is a pale lavender.

“I like your nails,” I say.

“Thanks. I know it seems ridiculous, painting my nails in the apocalypse, but it’s therapeutic. Gives me a chance to relax. And thanks for helping me with Jamar. I know he’s embarrassed, but he really doesn’t get to talk to people his own age much.”

“Taylor either,” I say. We go around the circle and introduce ourselves. “You been with the Nomads long?”

She shakes her head. “We ran into them back in Arkansas. Jamar and I were pretty much the only two people left in our hometown when they came through.”

“What was your hometown called?” I ask.

“Garland City. It’s near Texarkana.”

“Was that before or after . . . whatever happened to everyone?” I nod in the direction of the medical tent, and Niki’s mood darkens.

“Before.”

“We don’t have to talk about it, hon,” Daphne says, “if you don’t want to.”

She shakes her head again. “I heard a little bit about what happened to you all with your settlement in the Keys.” But not about Fort Caroline. I glance at Daphne to see if she’s going to say anything, but she just keeps her eyes on Niki. “It sounds like . . . I don’t know. It sounds wrong to say your group wasn’t as bad as ours.”

“It’s true,” I say. Although I big-time disagree with how they handled things, the Keys were trying to find a way to help everyone. I just think we could have figured out another way.

“The settlement was in Louisiana,” Niki says. “It was some church pastor whose whole family survived the flu. He said it was divine intervention and meant they were chosen to lead. When we first got there, things were fine; he wasn’t a big fire-and-brimstone preacher like back home. He seemed like a good Christian who genuinely wanted to help.”

But again my eyes drift over to the medical tent. While I was there having my injuries looked at, I saw all the other injured Nomads. Many of whom were burned, which seems pretty fire-and-brimstone.

“Then one night he died. Passed away peacefully in his sleep—or so his son, Phillip, said. But Cal says his son had a pretty cohesive plan to take over when his father died, so he and a few others think the son killed him. That’s when things got bad. Supplies started to go missing, and his family seemed to be fine while the rest of us were struggling to find food. Some folks tried to raid the supplies instead of waiting for our weekly ration—they were trying to feed kids—but when they got caught, Phillip . . .” Her eyes drift down to the Kid, who isn’t looking at her, but she’s smart enough to know that doesn’t mean he isn’t listening. She mouths the words “cut off their hands” and mimes it with her own in case we missed it.

“Jesus,” I say as Daphne puts her hand to her mouth.

“If he found out people were criticizing him, he would . . .” Again she stops, because the Kid is looking at her now. I think I know where she was going, anyway. “Let’s just say it was all very Old Testament. Some people believed in him, but most didn’t. The people who knew his father and had listened to him preach in church every Sunday said Phillip was nothing like his dad.”

There’s a long silence. Fort Caroline hadn’t gone full-tilt theocracy when we met them, but it seems like they were on their way. A chill run downs my spine at the idea of Phillip teaming up with Danny Rosewood to become the postapocalyptic supervillains of my nightmares.

“Sorry,” Niki says with a shy laugh. “This is why we don’t usually talk about this stuff.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “We know how it is. I mean, not exactly, but we know how hard things can be post-poc. And it seems like you have a good group of people now.” I have no idea how they all came together or what happened to the people in the medical tent, but I’m sure whatever it is, Niki doesn’t want to get into it. The way she brightens when I mention her group proves my point.

“Yeah, and it’s kind of nice, being able to travel around. I always thought I’d be stuck in Arkansas my whole life, and now I’ve seen Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Florida. Which, yeah, maybe doesn’t sound that great, especially considering the world ended and it’s not like we’ve seen fun things . . .” Her eyes go wide and she seems to catch herself. “Not that I think it’s fun the world ended. Oh, now I’m rambling.”

We laugh and Henri-Two starts crying. Niki points to her. “Do you mind?”

“Go for it,” Daphne says, nodding.

Niki reaches over to pick her up. She walks in a circle, trying to shush her and talking in a high-pitched voice. It works for a bit, but then the cries come right back.

“She’s probably hungry,” Daphne says, then she looks at me. “Have you eaten yet today, sweetie?”

I wave my good hand at her. “Yes, stop.” She rolls her eyes, but then I see them scouring the ground, looking for proof—a can or wrapper, which she won’t find because I haven’t eaten. With the pain, honestly, I’m just not hungry.

Niki stops walking in circles and nods in the direction of the mall. “Looks like they found something.”

I turn to see a few people walking with boxes and plastic totes. Including Jamie, Cara, and Rocky Horror.

“I hope it’s food.” Amy appears from nowhere, probably called to us by the sound of her daughter. “She’s hungry, and breast milk and a handful of chickpeas aren’t doing it.”

Again, guilt racks me. She chose to leave with us, and now she’s struggling to take care of her baby. I know it isn’t our fault that the Keys tried to trade Jamie for food and supplies, but I still feel responsible.

We have to keep moving. Even if it hurts.

“If it is food,” I say, “I think we might want to talk about leaving.”

Niki turns to us. “Are you okay to go?”

“It’s my arm, not my leg this time, so it will suck, but yeah, I should be fine.”

Taylor and Jamar make their way over to us and Taylor asks, “Did they find food?”

“Hopefully,” Daphne says, again looking at me and telling me with those motherly eyes of hers that she knows I lied to her. And, Christ, it works, because I do feel guilty.

“Good,” says Jamar. “’Cause I’m about to add starving to death to the list.”

Niki looks at her brother. “We forgot to add alligator attacks.”

Without skipping a beat, Jamar says, “I’m surviving the apocalypse and I’m worried about the superflu, thieves, guns, pneumonia, a broken back, Canada having to dip into the strategic maple syrup reserve, cannibals, traumatic brain injuries, ingrown toenails, getting a bad haircut, hearing the phrase ‘it could be worse’”—that one I legit guffaw at—“appendicitis, Christian fascism, waterborne parasites, burns, and alligators.”

“You lose!” Niki teases. “You forgot beestings and cashews.”

“I’m not the one allergic to those things.”

“But you still have to say it. Point for me.”

“You should add lions to your list, too,” I say as Jamie joins us. He, Cara, and Rocky Horror have set the totes down near the medical tent, where the Nomads are sorting through them. And, yes, it does look like there’s food.

“Oh yeah,” Taylor chimes in. “You gotta tell them that story, Andrew.” She turns back to Jamar like this is a magical moment she’s been waiting to talk to him about. “It’s wild. Jamison took out, like, three lions single-handedly.”

Jamie puts his lips to my ear and murmurs, “They’re going to be disappointed when a pack of lions shows up and kills us all.” Then he kisses right behind my ear, giving me chills. I lean my head on his shoulder and he holds me close. Even though it hurts my arm.

By dinner the following day, they’ve searched the whole mall. They did find food but no more medicine. They divvy it up evenly among everyone, and Daphne, Kelly, and Amy get the kids fed while Jamie and I split a can of condensed soup. Cara is over talking to Niki.

“How’s your arm?” Jamie asks. It’s probably the fifth time I’ve heard that question today from him alone.

I mumble loud enough for him to hear, “I’m surviving the apocalypse and I’m worried about bear traps, lions, and finding sleeping pills because I’m exhausted and I’ll take all of them immediately.”

After dinner, Dr. Jenn comes by during her rounds to check on my arm and distribute my evening antibiotic. She points the light strapped to her forehead at my wounds. Jamie, standing off to the side and attempting to give me privacy, obviously can’t help himself because he keeps glancing over.

“Wounds look okay,” she says. “Any discharge?”

“Only when we have canned beans.”

She snorts and shakes her head. “Pus, Andrew. Thick and yellow. Burning? Signs of infection?”

“Not as much.”

Jamie—again, can’t help himself—turns and says, “Tell her about the pain.”

“That isn’t infection,” I say. “Just a side effect of being mauled by a goddamn alligator like I’m a born and raised Floridian.”

“No,” Dr. Jenn says. “We Floridians know how to avoid gators.”

“You’ll have to give me some pointers next time I return to this state, which will be fucking never.”

She gives me an amused look but shakes her head. “What pain?”

“It’s like an . . . intense, sharp pain. Just goes up my arm and into my shoulder.”

“He said it feels like being shocked,” Jamie adds, taking the moment to come closer, giving up the ghost of pretending he doesn’t want to be a helicopter boyfriend.

Dr. Jenn looks at my hand. She touches the tip of her finger to the tips of my still index and middle fingers. “Feel anything here?”

“No.” I haven’t felt anything from those fingers except pain. Only it isn’t pain in the fingers so much as my arm and brain telling me there’s pain there.

“Sounds like nerve damage,” she says. “Probably from the trauma. Do you feel any burning or tingling here?” She points to the stitched-up wound between my middle and ring fingers.

“Only when I move them.” I show her what I mean, wincing as my index and middle fingers stay still and the pinkie and ring fingers barely flex. It’s weird to see those fingers not moving. Like they should—my brain is telling them to—but they just hang there.

Dr. Jenn sighs. “There isn’t a lot we can do. Nerve repair was tricky even before the bug, but it’s impossible now. The pain could go away on its own, or you’ll learn to live with it. When you can move without pain, you should try to move the fingers yourself. Sometimes injuries like this can cause post-traumatic arthritis.”

“Arthritis?” I look over to Jamie. “We need to get a lawn so I can sit on the porch and yell at kids to stay off it.”

Dr. Jenn opens her bag and takes out a metal tin. “Sap. We don’t have antibiotic ointment, but pine sap has antiseptic qualities. It’s a little old, so maybe put it by the fire to loosen it up before you apply it for the night. But make sure it’s not too hot.”

“I’ll just stick my fingers in and see how it feels,” I say.

She frowns, not enjoying my joke, and leaves to check on the others who are injured. Jamie takes the tin from me and puts it by our small fire, then gently takes my arm to look at it.

“How bad is the pain today?”

“Four?” I say, apparently forgetting how to pronounce the word nine. It’s still throbbing, and the nerves feel like lightning bolts are running through them. “How was shopping at the mall?”

“Good. I mean, we found the stash of food in the Bath and Body Works storeroom and also got some wonderful-smelling soap for you.”

“Saltwater Breeze?”

“Watermelon Mojito.”

“Aw, nuts.”

Jamie takes the tin from the side of the fire and twists the top off. He shakes his head and takes a wooden tongue depressor out of the small, mostly empty first aid kit we have. He stirs the sap in the tin and pulls out a long string of it, twirling the wood around in his fingers to separate it.

I hold in a sharp inhale as he places the sap against the stitched wounds, but he still sees the flinch of the fingers that remain mobile.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll be careful.”

“It’s fine.” I put my good hand on his knee and squeeze. But this is definitely unsexy. I lower my voice in case anyone nearby might be eavesdropping. “Well, my hand jobs are about to become a lot more creative.”

Even in the firelight I can see his cheeks flush. “You’re a righty.”

“Hey! You’re all righty, too!”

“I’m not laughing at these awful jokes just because you’re injured.”

“Whatever. I think I’m funny.”

He looks into my eyes. “Fine, I’ll admit it. I think you’re . . . delightfully irreverent, God help me, I don’t know why—”

“Bitch.”

“But you don’t have to be funny. Not about this. You’re allowed to be sad and hurt and in pain.”

“Well, yeah, I’m all that and funny.”

He scowls as he puts away the tin and begins wrapping my arm with a fresh bandage. “You don’t have to perform, then. You don’t have to tell shitty jokes to me as if you need to act like you aren’t hurt. I still love you, and you don’t need to pretend around me.”

Be vulnerable? Ew. What is this, a Scientology intake quiz?

But what would that look like? Being vulnerable—not the Scientology, because that’s silly alien junk. Would it just be me crying to Jamie that I miss my fucking thumb? There are people in Niki’s camp who had their whole hands cut off for trying to feed kids. And Kevin-the-monster’s eye injury gives a whole new eye-for-an-eye vibe I hadn’t picked up on before.

And I feel even worse about the next bit, because it’s so idiotically clichéd, but I don’t know what this injury means for our future together. Hand job jokes aside, what if when he doesn’t need to take care of me anymore, and my injuries are just scar tissue and unending pain and post-traumatic arthritis, he’s repulsed by my missing thumb and dead fingers? Even if he was, he wouldn’t tell me.

All that is giving me constant anxiety, but more than anything, I’m joking because I don’t want to say that the pain is so awful and so relentless that sometimes—despite everything we’ve survived—I’m not scared of dying anymore. Dying would at least mean no more pain. Now, what scares me the most is the pain not going away. What if it stays hovering at a nine out of ten for my whole life and I become a nasty, miserable person because of it?

That’s why I’m trying to joke. Trying to be funny and make sure the people I love don’t get annoyed that I’m cranky because I’m in endless, agonizing pain.

Bright and early the next morning, Cal and Kevin come over to our group with news. They want to get back on the road, but they want to invite us to stay with them. Jamie and I share a glance that says we need to discuss it as a group, because we haven’t yet. But for today, Cal says, they’re going on a supply run farther up the road.

“How much farther out are you going?” Cara asks.

“Today? Pretty much as far north as we can while still getting back before nightfall, or until we find gas, whichever comes first.”

“I’ll go,” Jamie says. I turn to question him with my eyes, but he isn’t looking at me.

“Me too,” says Rocky Horror. “If for no other reason than I’m curious to see how you get the gas.”

“I’ll come, too,” says Cara. Cal tells them to meet by the trucks in ten minutes, and the three of them get packing.

“Why are you going?” I ask Jamie. “We have to talk about whether we’re going with them or not.”

“We can discuss it when we get back. We’ll need food either way, and we can hit up more places on the way if we’re riding in a truck.”

“All the food is in these distribution centers.”

“Not all the food. There are still empty houses and maybe a few stores that might have something. Or maybe we’ll find another distribution center. One that wasn’t attacked.”

“Can you just stay with us?” I ask.

“And do what? They’re finished checking the mall, so what am I doing here that’s useful? Babysitting the kids?”

Wow, managing to dig right into my own insecurities of being dumped off the boat and assigned orphan duty. And also kind of belittling that job. We’re like a heteronormative married couple arguing about whether taking care of the kids is a job. I’d make a joke if I wasn’t so pissed off.

“Fine,” I say. “Go watch football with your friends. I’ll stay here with the kids.” It’s the best I can do.

He gives me a confused look but doesn’t say anything. Instead he dumps out his backpack onto our sleeping bags, then dumps out mine, too. “I’ll be back.” And without saying I love you or kissing me goodbye, he, Cara, and Rocky Horror head off for the trucks.

I’m surviving the apocalypse and I’m worried about bear traps, lions, alligators, Christofascists—oh my!—and the arguments between me and my boyfriend getting worse.