Andrew

JAMIE, CARA, AND ROCKY HORROR COME BACK with plenty of food for all of us, and they said there’s even more about an hour and a half drive up the road. Which is great news, because an hour and a half drive is probably about a day and a half walking. And there’s apparently more food than even the Nomads can carry, so even if we don’t leave with them, we can stop there and replenish some of the food we eat.

But we still need to figure that part out.

Shortly after dinner, while Jamie is off using nature’s facilities, Rocky Horror sits down next to me.

“Cute nails,” he says.

I hold up my right hand, where the nails have been painted a vibrant blue. “Thanks, Niki did them for me.” She even painted the two fingers on my left hand that weren’t wrapped. I turn to show them off in the sling my injured arm is resting in.

“How’s the arm feeling?”

I know I can be honest with him. “Like shit.”

“Yeah, I can tell ’cause of the cuntyness.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I heard you snap at Jamie earlier today—”

“I didn’t snap at him.”

“And most of it’s readable on your face.”

“It’s not cuntyness you’re reading, it’s pain. Annoyance with pain. Like unending, throbbing pain that doesn’t go away no matter how much I try to ignore it, or breathe through it, or I don’t know what else.”

I don’t have to hide it all from Rocky Horror like I do with Jamie. It’s kind of freeing. When Jamie asks how I am, I lie and say fine because he always wants to help. I love that about him, truly. But when nothing can be helped, he tries anyway, and that can make it worse. I’m in pain—so much goddamned pain—I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I’m just so sad. That’s it. None of the big words are big enough to express how I feel. Sad is the only one that feels right. We lost our home for the second time since the apocalypse, and now our only option is to either go back to the original one and hope we can strike a deal with the people there, who expect us to pay them food taxes to stay, or join up with the Nomads and make the road our home until we end up wherever they decide to put down roots. Which just feels exhausting.

Rocky Horror nods. “I get it. This part sucks.”

“It’s my own fault for getting comfortable in the Keys. Should have known things would get dangerous again.”

He scoffs. “Honey. Being queer is inherently dangerous. Even before the era of teotwawki. Just living our lives was dangerous. There’s the obvious, like heading out into the dead of night to hook up with a headless torso you’ve only spoken to on apps who may or may not be a serial killer—or worse, a catfish!”

“The catfish is worse?”

“I always saw myself as the Sidney Prescott type. I can survive a serial killer.”

“Of course.”

“But then there was just walking down the street. Using a bathroom. Going to spaces specifically made for us only for an idiot with a gun to decide he’s been tasked by God to cleanse the gays from the world. It only got worse for everyone when the world ended. And now we’re all on a . . . I guess only slightly more even playing field.”

I nod and look back at the Nomads, celebrating their scavenging finds for the day. That’s what I’ve been trying to impart on Jamie lately. We’re all on the same playing field, and maybe that means helping each other out and trying to win the game. Or whatever, I don’t know—Jamie can figure out the sports metaphor.

“What’s your vote?” I ask Rocky Horror. “Do we continue with the Nomads or go on our own?”

“Nomads. Safety in numbers. You?”

I nod. That’s how I felt before on the Keys, only it didn’t work out for us. But maybe the Nomads will be different. And if they have food and supplies, they could help keep us safe and get us to Maryland faster.

“I think you might be right.”

He leaves and goes over to Cara, probably to gauge her thoughts before our impending vote. Daphne and Kelly are with the kids, trying to tire them out for bedtime. Amy is chasing a crawling Henri-Two around in circles on a blanket, making her laugh and squeal. I finally have a quiet moment to close my eyes.

I’m so tired. Trying to sleep while the nerves in my arm are firing lightning bolts of pain is damn near impossible, but I could probably fall asleep in seconds right now.

Even with my eyes closed I know when Jamie returns and sits next to me. His steps are quiet, but it feels like the air has been disturbed around us. I can also smell the gasoline on him still.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I lie. “Just tired.” It’s not as bad if I follow it up with the truth, right?

Once the kids are asleep—minus Taylor, who now gets to vote with us—we talk about our options.

“Do we know what their plan is?” Amy asks.

“Rocky Horror and I spoke to one of the guys this afternoon,” says Cara. “They’re heading north. They had similar issues with supplies in the red states.”

“The hot states, too,” Jamie adds. “Without AC, the canned food spoils at over ninety degrees.”

“North means winter weather,” Daphne says. But we’re only in sweatshirts and jackets right now. The Florida days are in the sixties, but nighttime drops to the low fifties or the high forties.

Rocky Horror raises his hand. “I’m just leading with a yes. Let’s go with them. There’s strength in numbers, and so far we’ve been here for a few days and the Keys haven’t caught up with us. These people have vehicles, fuel, and food, and if we need to, we can get away from the Keys and Fort Caroline faster with them than we can if we’re on foot with seven kids.” He looks at Taylor. “Sorry, six and a half kids.”

Taylor rolls her eyes. But it’s hard to argue with Rocky Horror’s logic.

“Does anyone have any cons to counter Rocky Horror’s pros?” Kelly asks.

I turn to Jamie, expecting him to remind us that these people are strangers. He didn’t trust the people in the Keys and always had one foot out the door, so he has to be feeling similar about the Nomads.

But he just looks back at me, then around the circle.

Seriously? Nothing?

“They’re nomads,” Cara says. “They don’t have any idea where they’re going other than north. I know when we set out from the Keys we had a similar idea, but Amy, I don’t think your mom is able to accept fifteen people into her home. So maybe we need to talk about what the plan is for all of us, too.”

“Jamie and I were talking about that,” I say, jumping in. “The way Trevor made it sound, they could tell Fort Caroline we’re heading to Bethesda. Cara, you lived in Maryland. We were thinking maybe once we get to Henri, we get her to leave with us for a bit, maybe head somewhere else in Maryland farther from Bethesda. We camp out and wait there.” I turn to Amy. “Then when it’s safe, you can all go back home. Maybe we stay close by?”

But when I look to Jamie, he doesn’t seem to agree with the last part. Cara doesn’t answer me, either. She keeps her gaze on the ground in front of her, lost in her own thoughts. After about forty seconds of silence, Rocky Horror speaks again.

“That is something we can figure out in Bethesda. Right now, let’s keep the question to ‘Are we joining up with the Nomads?’”

“Well,” says Daphne, rubbing at her shoulder, “I for one would love to be off the road. But we do need to discuss the rest soon. I’m okay traveling around with the Nomads for a bit, but it’s not ideal for the kids. They’ve lost everyone they know. They need structure and stability.”

That’s true. We have to find a place for the kids first. Again, my mind goes to the poor kids who died in the hurricane. The guilt I still feel for not helping Liz get them to safety before the gym collapsed.

“Daphne’s right,” I say. “We have to make the kids a priority.”

“What if we find another settlement?” Taylor asks. “If the Keys weren’t safe, maybe another settlement nearby will be.”

I glance at Jamie. We never told Taylor everything about Fort Caroline.

“We can also ask some of the Nomads if they want to make a settlement,” Taylor adds. I know she’s especially talking about Jamar, who she’s grown close to over the last few days. She also very clearly doesn’t know how much work would be involved in such a thing. Like us, by the time she showed up in the Keys, most of the hardest work had already been done.

Daphne reaches out and rubs Taylor’s shoulder in a motherly way. “I love that idea, hon. But it’s hard to start something from scratch. Maybe your idea of finding another settlement is better.”

We discuss back and forth for almost two hours until we’ve started repeating ourselves and Rocky Horror finally calls for a vote.

“Let’s make this a quick one,” he says. “All in favor of taking on the nomadic lifestyle, raise your hands.”

Kelly’s, Taylor’s, and Rocky Horror’s hands go up instantly. Amy’s follows shortly after. I look over at Jamie. He seems to be wavering back and forth like I am. Then he gives me a slight nod and raises his hand.

That’s all it takes for me to make my decision, and my heart feels a little lighter. Jamie was trying so hard to distance himself from the people in the Keys—the people sitting by this fire, even—but he’s willing to risk it now. Maybe he’s turning a corner and allowing himself to have some hope.

Cara and Daphne are the only holdouts, but as soon as I raise my hand, Cara’s goes up, too. Though she looks less sure than I feel.

Daphne rolls her shoulders and head, touching her sore arm before finally raising it as well.

“Okay,” Rocky Horror says. “We’ll head out with them tomorrow.”

“We’re going to have to find another vehicle,” Cara says. “We can all fit in the RVs with the others at first, but it’s going to be too cramped to stay like that for long.”

“We’ll find one on the road,” Kelly says. “Maybe a school bus.”

With our decision made, we turn in for the night. Jamie and I make the unspoken decision to sleep a little farther from the others than we usually do. Maybe there’s more to discuss, but I’m worried he’s trying to unpack whether we made the right decision. Something I don’t want to talk about. He attaches his sleeping bag to mine and pulls me close against him. Not even the pain in my arm and hand is enough to distract me from how good it feels to be next to him.

To feel him next to me. Feel his hands on me.

“How is your arm?” he whispers as one of his legs wraps around mine and pulls me tighter against him. I’ve noticed his hands not touching it. His fingers graze up my thigh, hip, side, shoulder, then just float over my injured arm before finding somewhere else to land.

“Fine,” I say. It still hurts, but I have no intention of whining about the pain. At least my leg aches from the rain have gotten noticeably less annoying. Jesus, I’m a mess. I have to stop injuring myself.

“Are you sure?”

I kiss him, biting at his lip. “Yes.” I use my other hand to prove the point and he buries his face against my neck to smother his gasp. He rakes his teeth against my skin but then gently takes my injured arm, and the pain is sharp and instant. I suck air through my clenched teeth. He leans away from me as I clutch my arm to my chest.

“I’m sorry, are you okay?”

“Yes,” I whisper, but the pain has taken me out of the moment. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

He scoffs and puts his hands to my cheeks. “I’m always going to worry about you.”

“That’s very sweet, but I’d rather you worry about this.” I slip my good hand back into his underwear, but he grips my wrist.

“Hold on. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay if you aren’t.”

“Why not? I’m so good at it!” I try to kiss him, but he pulls away.

“No, you aren’t. I can tell when you’re lying, remember? And I spent several weeks with you after you stepped in a bear trap. I know what your face looks like when you’re in pain.”

“Talking about it doesn’t help.”

“It can.”

“No! It can’t. It’s not psychological trauma, it’s physical. Focusing on it makes it worse. You asking me over and over and over makes it fucking worse, because you can’t do anything about it but you try, and it gets annoying very quickly.”

Even in the dark I can see the surprise on his face.

Shit. I shouldn’t have said the last part. Why did I say that?

“I don’t mean it’s annoying,” I say, even though I do. It’s annoying because I’m frustrated that he wants so badly to do something but can’t. But I also don’t want to talk about it because he can’t. I know it’s coming from a place of love when he asks me, and I absolutely love him for that when I think about it, but in the moment, yeah. It’s annoying. Especially right now, when all I want to do is not focus on the pain and just enjoy being with him.

“It’s okay,” he says, but I can hear the hurt in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m a cynical bitch, but I don’t mean that you annoy me. It’s the pain and I’m taking it out on you.” I kiss his lips. He kisses back, but it seems like an afterthought.

“You don’t have to be a cynical bitch with me. You can be a regular bitch and I’ll still love you.”

“You say that now, but, girl, just so you know—”

“Andrew.” His tone sounds like a warning. Like he wants me to stop joking around and be serious.

My cheeks burn and I feel guilty again. Silly, even. My boyfriend is scolding me like I’m a child. “It’s a defense mechanism.”

“I know it is.” He runs his fingers up my back. “You don’t need your defenses up around me.”

“Everyone needs their defenses up these days.” What the hell is wrong with me? “That was a joke, too. I’m sorry I can’t stop.”

“Try.” He sounds serious now.

I don’t know what to say. I know I don’t need to be defensive around him, but every day there’s more danger and despair and it feels like there’s no end in sight. Rocky Horror even said it—being queer is inherently dangerous, but so is the world now. For everyone. Is this how our lives are going to be now? Tiny moments of joy and then awfulness the rest of the time?

Because if it is, yes, I do need my defense mechanism. I need to be a cynical bitch who can laugh because otherwise I’ll go insane.

I put my forehead against Jamie’s, and even though my injured arm still hurts, I hold it against him. He’s going through the same things I am, but I don’t want to be a helpless, miserable shell—which is what I’ll become if I can’t joke about what scares me.

“Just talk to me,” Jamie says. He kisses me, and I realize silent tears are dripping from my nose. “And if I’m annoying you, then tell me, just don’t make it a joke.”

“You aren’t annoying me.” I sigh, but it turns into a sob. “And my arm hurts. So fucking bad. All the time it hurts, and it feels like it’s never going to stop. I’m so tired.”

He pulls me against his chest, squeezing me firmly but gently. It’s not just my arm that hurts. It’s everything. Every day. I’m so tired of being scared all the time. And I think he understands that—of course he does—because he whispers in my ear. “I know. I am, too. But we’ll be okay.” He repeats it over and over. And his whispers are the last things I hear before I finally fall asleep.