Ethan woke with a jolt.
He was hot, burning up, and he yanked his blankets off and flung them to the floor. Then he swung his healthy leg to the side of the bed and physically moved his amputated leg over as well. With his shoulders heaving, he inhaled and exhaled in short bursts, staring at the ground, wishing he could get up and walk out of his room.
It was dark outside.
Someone had left candles burning on his desk. He sniffed and then hit his bed with balled up fists. His room stunk like lilac. He hated lilac; hated the scented candles his mother used to buy and stock in their hall closet. During her most proficient cleaning spells, the entire house reeked with the overwhelming scent of manufactured Hawaiian Breeze or vanilla bean candles.
Between his pain and his frustration, he couldn’t even find an ounce of nostalgia for something that so clearly represented his mother.
Without a nurse, an aide, he was trapped. He had slept all day; the house was silent. Ethan tried to push away the anger he felt at being left alone. What if he needed something? What if he had fallen out of bed? What if he was hungry? Had everyone forsaken him already?
His leg throbbed, but Ethan ignored the pain and the ache—more than anything, he wanted to move, wanted to get out of his room. Ethan put his left leg on the ground and his body wobbled; he shifted so that he could place his hands against the headboard and steady himself. Then he lowered his stump off the bed too and felt the gravity of his leg pull him downward; there was heaviness despite the absence and it overwhelmed his senses.
What would he do? Where would he go? To the bathroom? Downstairs? Could he prove to these strangers that he wasn’t a total invalid? But he was and he knew it, even as he tried to shimmy along the side of the bed, his leg in total agony, his hands shaking, he knew that without these people, he would die.
Ethan’s door swung open and Darla entered, waving a flashlight toward the bed.
“Ethan? Ethan?”
Darla said as she tiptoed into the candlelight room. She drew in a sharp intake of air when she saw him standing on the edge of his bed, hunched over, just in boxer shorts. “Are you out of your mind?” she spat and rushed over, dumping the flashlight on the bed and tucking her arms underneath his armpits. “If you popped a stitch, you’ll bleed out. Die.”
“I don’t want to stay cooped up in this room. I’ll die of boredom,” he moaned as she helped him sit back up on the bed.
Darla rolled her eyes. “Then I’ll bring some cards the next time I come in. We’ll play a riveting round of poker. What do you want to throw in the kitty? Since you want to gamble your life, how about your meds?”
“Did you just come in here to give me crap?” Ethan asked.
Darla smiled. “Hey, I feel like our dynamic duo is suffering a bit with you being laid up in here. I came in for company, to be honest.”
“The others don’t seem like they’re riveting conversationalists,” Ethan said and he pointed to a half-finished water pouch on his desk. Darla passed it over to him.
“I’m trying to be nice to them,” she answered. “But something’s not right. I feel it.”
“Really?” Ethan asked. He was suddenly alert; he gulped the rest of the pouch.
“I’m a good judge of character, I think,” Darla said defensively. Ethan put his hands up and looked at her sidelong. “Okay, I’m sorry. It’s just…they don’t include me. That’s strange, right? And Spencer moved from the school—”
“What?”
“And the doctor and Joey went to his new house tonight. For dinner. They didn’t even tell me…and it feels off. Plus—” she paused, weighing her words.
“Spit it out.”
“I could be wrong.”
“I trust you.”
That made Darla smile; in the candlelight, she looked younger, less tired. Ethan frowned—he felt like his failing health had left her alone; she and Teddy were the closest thing he had to family now, and he had deserted them.
“Someone’s stealing. Why, I don’t know. We’re open with our resources, everyone has equal opportunities and access…but the MRE pile took a hit the other day and some of the canned goods.”
“Spencer?”
“It’s my only guess. Everyone else is here at the house. It’s got to be…but I’m lacking a motive.”
“That bastard.”
“Well,” Darla said, dropping her voice, her tone wary, “let’s not accuse him yet. He’s sneaky and a known opportunist, but why would he steal? The food is out in the open…it’s not like we’re keeping anything hidden from him. And he doesn’t have anyone to trade with anymore.”
“They’re conspiring against us,” Ethan said matter-of-factly and he crossed his arms over his bare chest. “Private dinners. Stealing our stuff?”
“Then why save you?” Darla shook her head. “No, something’s off…I can’t put my finger on it.” Then, after a pause, she smirked and added: “Ainsley’s pretty keen on you.”
“No one says that anymore.”
“It’s a new world. I’m bringing it back. You watch…all the hip kids will use it,” Darla said and smiled widely.
“No one says hip kids either.”
“Wrong again. My world is six people large; maybe
you’re
just not cool anymore, and it’s time to face the facts.”
“Ouch,” Ethan said with a smile. “A one-legged Adonis is always cool.”
“Adonis?” Darla roared. “I’ll give you credit for the Greek mythology reference and downgrade you for narcissism.”
“Why do you think Ainsley’s
keen
on me?” Ethan changed the subject.
Darla sat back in her chair. “Because I need her to be.”
“I see,” Ethan nodded once. But he didn’t see entirely.
“If Spencer’s vying for power, this is a competition
we
need to win. Joey’s a buffoon, but he’s a Spencer lackey. But if we keep the doctor and her daughter on our side, I like our chances. Otherwise, there’s no predicting what he can convince people to do. It’s scary.”
“Darla,” Ethan adjusted his legs and grimaced. She raised her eyebrows in reply. “What are we
vying
for? Why does power matter? What’s left to control?”
The question lingered and the house creaked; outside a gust of wind blew a tree branch against the siding and they turned to the noise, on high alert.
“I think that’s obvious,” she replied when the outside noises died away. Darla looked at him, her mouth drawn into a straight line. Then she crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair, her feet planted firmly on the ground.
“I’m lost,” Ethan said and he shrugged. “Spell it out for me.”
“You, Ethan.”
He still didn’t understand.
Darla continued, “Your dad knew about the attacks and the vaccines he left saved our lives…”
“So?”
“Are the pain killers making you dense?”
Ethan grumbled and slid down in his bed, rolling over and fluffing a pillow against his stomach.
“Stop pouting,” Darla chastised. “What will happen when Lucy gets to Nebraska? What will happen when your family knows you’re alive?”
“I hope they’ll come for me,” he answered.
“And when they do?” Darla asked. She paused, her eyes pleading. “What happens to us?”
The question caught Ethan off-guard and he dropped the pillow to the ground and looked straight at Darla—and she was looking straight back at him, her eyes raised in an expectant pause.
“I don’t know,” he answered, his voice small.
“You think they’ll just take us all?”
“Yes,” Ethan said almost in a whisper.
“But if they don’t…if it doesn’t go down like that…you think Spencer and whoever else he can gather with him will let you go without a fight?”
“I’ll make sure you and Teddy get to come with me. I’ll make sure of it. No one is leaving anyone behind. You have my word.”
“You won’t have a choice.”
“If my family wants to see me again, then they’ll let me bring you too!” Ethan was getting worked up and he could feel the tears coming. He shut his eyes tight. Displaying emotion wasn’t a norm for Ethan; he wished he could slip back into simple days and one-word retorts.
“Your dad may be the
reason
our family is dead—”
“Stop.” Ethan put his hands over his ears, like he used to when he was a child. He was trapped. Normally he’d storm out, make someone follow him, make someone continue the conversation, but on his own terms.
Darla stood up and walked over to the edge of the bed. She dropped down, her face inches from his. “Hey,” she said in a soft voice. She ran her hand along his forearm and tugged his hand free. He let his hand fall and he looked at her. “Hey. I’m just telling you…there might be a new war brewing. And you’re at the center of it. Who controls Ethan, controls their future.”
“I’m not important,” Ethan corrected. “I’m just an injured kid. A nothing.” He started to hate the way he sounded, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Darla patted the top of his head. “You’re my friend, idiot.”
“Thanks,” he answered. “Are you just my friend because you think you can use me for a better future?”
She winked. “Nah, kid. But now you’re catching on.”
It was Ainsley who brought him breakfast. It was one of his father’s MREs: a biscuit with sausage gravy, and it was room temperature and gelatinous. He gagged it down, under Ainsley’s faithful eye, and then handed her the debris.
She made a face at the leftover brown goop before dumping the remaining packaging into the wastebasket by his desk.
“Some future, huh?” she said nodding toward the container.
“What’d
you
have for breakfast?” Ethan asked incredulously.
“I haven’t had anything yet,” she answered, stepping in for her nursing rounds, which Ethan thought seemed like nothing more than making sure he didn’t have a temperature and that his heart was still beating. He certainly didn’t need Ainsley’s warm body leaning over his, touching his arms, his chest, to tell her that he didn’t have a fever and he was, in fact alive.
“When I’m up here eating that shit, I just keep imagining that it’s a big party downstairs and you’re all feasting on bacon, eggs, pancakes,” he paused and assessed her reaction. She didn’t even glance at him. “That’s ridiculous, I know.”
Ainsley shrugged. “I’ve dreamed about milkshakes for the last two nights,” she said. “Giant, cold, smooth, chocolate milkshakes. Except in one dream, the milkshake was talking. I don’t know what that was about.”
Ethan paused. Besides divulging that she was a nursing student, it was the first time Ainsley had muttered anything about herself. It wasn’t revealing or intriguing, but it was a start. Darla’s comment about Ainsley’s potential attraction played on a loop as he watched the girl take his blood pressure, her hand on his arm, clammy and soft. He debated about whether or not she was pretty.
He cleared his throat.
“I feel isolated up here,” he said. “Alone.” The truth felt nice to say, but he worried that Ainsley would shred his honesty and leave him wanting. His mind wandered to Anna. God, he missed Anna. How had they started? It was so long ago. He was a senior, and she was a sophomore. She sent him a semi-flirtatious text message and he showed it to his friends. They mocked her lack of subtlety, but the conversation shifted: should he ask her out? He did. Winter Formal first. A barrage of photos, doting parents, group dinner, a sweaty and boiling ballroom, rigid formal pictures—his hand placed on her waist by the overweight portrait studio photographer, who winked at him as Anna adjusted her corsage.
There was no courting Anna, no masterful feats of dating acumen. They just clicked. She was simple and didn’t require him to put on a song and dance for her. They were content with ordering pizza and watching movies, sitting in silence. He loved her. And he missed her. No matter how much Lucy hated Anna and mocked him for dating her, Anna was always there for him. She just wanted to be loved. So, he loved her.
Even entertaining Ainsley’s crush seemed like a monumental betrayal to his girlfriend, not even three-weeks dead.
He pushed aside Darla’s innuendo. This girl was not for him—even if she might be the only girl his age left in existence. He pined for Anna; wished it was Anna’s hands helping him, Anna gently wiping away the blood on his stumpy wound, inspecting his surgery scars with tenderness and not disgust.
Ainsley sighed. “Everyone’s alone no matter where they go,” she replied. “Even in a big house full of people.”
“Comedian and
philosopher
now,” Ethan answered with bite. He didn’t need another Darla who seemed to physically balk at validating his worries and insecurities. It became even more evident that he was a stranger in his own house. Ainsley finished her routine with detached steadiness. He watched her; she never responded to his comeback—didn’t flinch, didn’t narrow her eyes, or crack a smile.
It was like he didn’t exist.
She wasn’t pretty, Ethan thought. Her nose was too big, her hair too frizzy. She was too thin and angular. And her perpetual frown made her seem older than her twenty years.
“Pain level?” she asked.
“Just go away,” Ethan whispered. He regretted it the moment he said it and he wished to take it back, but it was liberating too. He closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest and breathed in and out at steady intervals. “Please,” he added to soften the blow.
“Whatever you want, boss,” Ainsley answered in a calm voice. She finished her inspection though and noted his vitals on the notebook paper chart doctor Krause had created. She shook out his pills and placed them on his bed stand, within reach, and then turned her back and walked out without another word. Ethan caught a glimpse of Ainsley as she turned the knob in her hand before shutting the door. Her eyes were dark and empty, bottomless, unreadable.
He trembled and tucked his blanket up under his armpits and stared at the ceiling.
Darla didn’t knock. She opened Ethan’s door and walked right up to Ethan’s bedside. Since that morning, she had changed into her trademark black leggings and her white tank-top; she stood with her feet apart and her arms crossed, her gun back in its holster, visible and gleaming. The outfit indicated that she was heading out to hunt—even without a population to trade with, Darla took long trips exploring the area. She said she was out looking for others, survivors, but the effort was futile.