Not like the hard-packed clay we’ve been fighting to grow things in.
The house has a set of storm doors leading to a basement. The doors are locked with a chain and a padlock. I settle the chicken back into its place in the dirt and leave Opal and the puppy to guard it while I go in the house to see if I can get into the basement that way.
The basement door is also locked with a chain and padlock.
This stops me. Whatever’s in the basement must be worth protecting. So. Keys. I check the kitchen drawers and find the usual broken pens and scratch pads, garbage-bag twist ties. There’s a place for keys next to the fridge, a smooth wooden plaque with small metal hooks. But no keys.
I check inside the garage door, which is where my dad often hung his keys. Nothing. Inside the coat closet by thefront door, I check the pockets of all the coats and all the hooks. I find a purse hung behind a woman’s leather jacket. There’s money inside.
My parents
did
raise me right. I
do
hesitate before I take it, but there’s nearly a hundred dollars in small bills in the wallet, along with a handful of coins. I take it all. It might not make a difference—you can’t spend money if there’s nothing to buy. But I can’t just leave it here when we might need it someday. Besides, the people who owned this house are long gone and won’t miss it.
Checking outside through the kitchen window, I see Opal tossing a ball for the now-eager puppy, which goes after it with great galumphing leaps. The formal living room is just beyond the kitchen, and across from it, a smaller room that looks like a den or office. I can see bookshelves through the half-open door.
Books, oh, books. Without the Internet or much TV to entertain us, they’re as necessary as food, and I’m through the door without a second thought. I’m so focused on the shelves, stuffed to overflowing with paperbacks and hardcover titles, that I don’t see the man in the armchair until I almost trip over the footstool.
He’s dead.
The black plastic garbage bag hides his face, and the mottled gray and green of his hands, which are gripping the arms of the chair, are clue enough he’s long gone, though I shout out a startled “Oh, hi!” out of reflex. The smell waftsto me next, something sickly sweet with an undertone of dirty diapers, but I don’t think he’s been dead long enough to start to fall apart.
Two dead people in a day is too many for me. I want to run screaming from the room, but instead I stare at him for a long, long moment, happy that Opal’s outside. She’s a smart kid and knows what’s up with the world these days, but I still don’t think she needs to see this, even if it’s obvious that he died by his own choice, in his favorite chair. There’s a water glass next to him, and an almost-empty bottle of liquor. A bottle of prescription pills. He’s wearing a robe and plaid pajamas too heavy for this time of year and worn slippers … it’s the slippers that get me, after a minute or so of staring at them.
He chose to die in this room, which must mean it was his comfortable place, where he could sit in his pajamas and read a book. It’s wrong for me to be here. Even if the books won’t do him any good, I can’t take them.
I do, however, know where the keys must be.
I hold my breath as I pat the pockets of his robe. I know that even if he were Contaminated, he’s not going to lurch back to life and grab me. The Contaminated aren’t the undead, just people who drank protein water that gave them holes in their brains and made them incapable of controlling their rage. But he’s still a corpse, maybe not dead long enough to be totally rotten, but long enough to bloat.
He sighs when I press his belly. Now there’s a stink thatmakes me gag and choke—I swallow back the rising sting in my throat and force myself not to spew. Worse, that noise goes on and on, more than a sigh. It’s a low, groaning noise that sounds like he’s trying to
The house has a set of storm doors leading to a basement. The doors are locked with a chain and a padlock. I settle the chicken back into its place in the dirt and leave Opal and the puppy to guard it while I go in the house to see if I can get into the basement that way.
The basement door is also locked with a chain and padlock.
This stops me. Whatever’s in the basement must be worth protecting. So. Keys. I check the kitchen drawers and find the usual broken pens and scratch pads, garbage-bag twist ties. There’s a place for keys next to the fridge, a smooth wooden plaque with small metal hooks. But no keys.
I check inside the garage door, which is where my dad often hung his keys. Nothing. Inside the coat closet by thefront door, I check the pockets of all the coats and all the hooks. I find a purse hung behind a woman’s leather jacket. There’s money inside.
My parents
did
raise me right. I
do
hesitate before I take it, but there’s nearly a hundred dollars in small bills in the wallet, along with a handful of coins. I take it all. It might not make a difference—you can’t spend money if there’s nothing to buy. But I can’t just leave it here when we might need it someday. Besides, the people who owned this house are long gone and won’t miss it.
Checking outside through the kitchen window, I see Opal tossing a ball for the now-eager puppy, which goes after it with great galumphing leaps. The formal living room is just beyond the kitchen, and across from it, a smaller room that looks like a den or office. I can see bookshelves through the half-open door.
Books, oh, books. Without the Internet or much TV to entertain us, they’re as necessary as food, and I’m through the door without a second thought. I’m so focused on the shelves, stuffed to overflowing with paperbacks and hardcover titles, that I don’t see the man in the armchair until I almost trip over the footstool.
He’s dead.
The black plastic garbage bag hides his face, and the mottled gray and green of his hands, which are gripping the arms of the chair, are clue enough he’s long gone, though I shout out a startled “Oh, hi!” out of reflex. The smell waftsto me next, something sickly sweet with an undertone of dirty diapers, but I don’t think he’s been dead long enough to start to fall apart.
Two dead people in a day is too many for me. I want to run screaming from the room, but instead I stare at him for a long, long moment, happy that Opal’s outside. She’s a smart kid and knows what’s up with the world these days, but I still don’t think she needs to see this, even if it’s obvious that he died by his own choice, in his favorite chair. There’s a water glass next to him, and an almost-empty bottle of liquor. A bottle of prescription pills. He’s wearing a robe and plaid pajamas too heavy for this time of year and worn slippers … it’s the slippers that get me, after a minute or so of staring at them.
He chose to die in this room, which must mean it was his comfortable place, where he could sit in his pajamas and read a book. It’s wrong for me to be here. Even if the books won’t do him any good, I can’t take them.
I do, however, know where the keys must be.
I hold my breath as I pat the pockets of his robe. I know that even if he were Contaminated, he’s not going to lurch back to life and grab me. The Contaminated aren’t the undead, just people who drank protein water that gave them holes in their brains and made them incapable of controlling their rage. But he’s still a corpse, maybe not dead long enough to be totally rotten, but long enough to bloat.
He sighs when I press his belly. Now there’s a stink thatmakes me gag and choke—I swallow back the rising sting in my throat and force myself not to spew. Worse, that noise goes on and on, more than a sigh. It’s a low, groaning noise that sounds like he’s trying to
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