Part 4 (1/2)

”No, you won't, will you?” Drew's voice took on a harder edge. ”'Cause you're too afraid of your crazy daddy and what he might do if you dared to live a little. You're trapped in a cage, Peyton,” he told her. ”Living half a life. All because some Armageddon nut-who should be locked up-keeps telling you that the end of the world is near.” He shook his head. ”Well, let me tell you something: when the end of the world does come, I'm going to have lived my life. How about you? You still going to be waiting around with Daddy?”

Peyton snapped. Her fist found Drew's nose, connecting with an oh-so-satisfying sound of crus.h.i.+ng bone, followed by a scream of pain. Her boyfriend's perfect proboscis-the one that his parents had paid, well, through the nose for-was now a shapeless, b.l.o.o.d.y mess.

”Don't talk about my father like that,” she said, lowering her bloodied hand. Then she turned and stormed toward the exit, leaving Drew bawling like a baby and shouting for the nurse.

As she left the cafeteria, she fought the urge to spit.

Chapter Eight.

Chase and Peyton wove through an asphalt field of abandoned cars and shopping carts-many still packed with plastic bags of decomposing goods-on their way to the Walmart front entrance. The car windows were mostly broken, and shattered gla.s.s on the pavement caught the failing sunlight, sparkling like a field of scattered diamonds. Peyton fingered her own diamond-the one she'd been carrying around in her pocket since she left the shelter-and wondered if she should show it to Chase. Would he even remember giving it to her? It seemed a lifetime ago.

She withdrew her hand from her pocket and took a look around, s.h.i.+vering at the sight of the barren landscape. Everything was so still, so dead. What had it been like for these people whose rag-clad skeletons now stretched out before her, littering the parking lot? One moment they were blissful, happy-go-lucky Walmart shoppers, ready to enjoy an hour or so of discount commerce; the next they were collapsing where they stood, their lungs seizing up, their hearts failing-and those were the lucky ones. What went through their minds as they fell to the hard, cold pavement? Had they pled for some kind of last-minute divine intervention? At what moment had they resigned themselves to the fact that none would come?

As she stared at a car that looked vaguely familiar-was that the Smart Nissan of one of her teachers?-a lump formed in her throat that she struggled to swallow down. She was supposed to be tough now, after all. Her father had trained her for this: to be strong, to not let overwhelming emotion wash her away. So there were some dead people here. So it went. After all, she was a razor girl. Like Molly Millions. And Molly Millions didn't cry.

She faltered, stumbled. Unable to go on. Her dad would be ashamed.

Suddenly a strong hand found her shoulder, spinning her around. Chase cupped her chin with his other hand, tilting her face upward toward his. His fingers were warm-rough and calloused, but still tender as they firmly directed her eyes to meet his own. In an instant, she found herself lost in a kaleidoscope of color. She drew in breath; how many nights, down in the shelter, had she dreamed of those strange eyes of his? Those vivid greens and yellows and blues, all swirled together. And now, if anything, they seemed even more brilliant in the fading light of day.

”Are you okay?” he asked, actually sounding concerned for the first time since they'd met that day. She realized she was trembling. How embarra.s.sing. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her as weak.

”I'm fine,” she retorted, shaking her head to free it from his hand. But he only gripped her chin tighter, tracing a finger along her jawline. That touch sparked an ache deep inside-one she found she couldn't will away. Like everything else in this world.

”Sure you are,” he said, giving her an amused smirk. ”That's why you're white as a sheet.”

She slumped her shoulders and sighed. ”Okay, fine. It's... a lot to take in. I admit it.”

He dropped his hand and she felt a weird emptiness inside at the loss of his touch. He leaned up against an ancient rusted-out Pryus and stared off into the distance. For a moment, she wondered if he was going to speak.

”When we first got back, after being in the mountains for so long, we couldn't believe it,” he said at last. ”Up there, removed from it all, it was hard to imagine how bad things had become. I threw up three times when I saw the first bodies.” He grimaced. ”Real manly, huh?”

”I did, too,” she cried eagerly before she could stop herself. Before she could play it cool. Tough. But it felt so good to admit it. To know she wasn't alone. ”Outside my house. I saw... a baby.” She shuddered.

”You get used to it after a while,” he said, still staring off into the distance. He rubbed his chin with his forefinger and thumb. ”I know that probably sounds crazy now, but it's true.”

She peered around the parking lot. At the death. Decay. Dismemberment. ”I can't imagine.”

”Of course you won't be expecting it,” he continued. ”But one day you'll be out and about-hunting food or whatever-and someone will say something. Do something. And it'll strike you as funny.” He shook his head. ”You'll be standing there, smack dab in the middle of a ma.s.s graveyard, surrounded by cannibalistic zombies, cackling like a loon.” He smiled and for a second she thought she saw the old Chris coming out from behind the mask. ”It's at that moment you realize that life goes on. It really does.”

He turned back to her and their gazes locked. Try as she might, she found she couldn't look away, as if trapped by his eyes. She exhaled, her heart pounding in her chest. Half of her wanted to grab him, right then and there, throw herself into his arms and melt into him, soaking up his strength. Relinquish her control, her strength, her armor, and just be a girl again. A girl who loved a boy.

But she wasn't that girl. And he wasn't that boy. Not anymore. And to succ.u.mb now would only make things harder when she had to say goodbye.

”Life goes on,” she repeated instead, desperate to break the spell that had seemed to come between them. ”Yeah. Until a zombie makes you his lunch.” Her sarcasm sounded harsh, even to her own ears, and she regretted her words the second they left her mouth.

Chase's smile faltered and he dropped his gaze. If she didn't know better she'd say he looked disappointed. But ”Yeah, exactly,” was all he said as he hopped back off the car. ”Now come on. Let's get inside where it's safe before we lose all the light.”

He took off and she followed, still a bit shaken. They wove through the parking lot until they reached what had once served as the front of the store. The normal gla.s.s-windowed entrance had been barricaded with large sheets of metal, roughly fused together with a combination of bolts and solder.

”The Others aren't too shy about jumping through gla.s.s windows,” Chase explained, all business again as he gestured to the makes.h.i.+ft barriers. ”h.e.l.l, it's practically an Olympic sport for them. But they can't see for anything and aren't too smart, so the metal here keeps them out. Tank rigged it up a couple years back, and so far we've managed to keep a low profile. We've killed those who've come around, so... well, we think they a.s.sume the place is abandoned.”

He gave a cursory glance around the parking lot, Peyton a.s.sumed checking for zombies, then went to a door cut out of the metal plates. He opened its lock with a key that hung on a silver chain around his neck. Beyond was a smashed-in gla.s.s door.

”Careful,” he said as he motioned for Peyton to step inside. ”Don't cut yourself. A single scratch could be lethal these days.”

She hadn't thought of that. With no physicians, an untreated infection could be as dangerous as a zombie. Stepping through, she took care to avoid any sharp metal edges or gla.s.s shards.

Chase entered, locking the metal door behind them. ”Here we are,” he said, ushering her forward. ”Home sweet home.”

The normally bright overhead fluorescent lights were, of course, no longer functioning in the superstore, and the darkness was shocking compared to the daylight outside. Otherwise, in what light there was, coming from a skylight to the northwest, the place seemed much as she remembered it. The shelves nearby were stacked with discounted electronics, yellow bouncy ball signs declaring which products were currently-or four years ago, in this case-on special. A long row of checkouts, manned by silent cash register sentinels, stretched off into the distance. In short, it was a barren wasteland of dust-caked commercialism, a vivid reminder of how the world once was.

Peyton sneezed.

”Maid's day off,” Chase quipped, beckoning her to follow. ”Come on. I think the gang's in Toys.”

”Toys?”

”You'll see.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a flashlight, flicking it on. A weak beam did its best to pierce the darkness, but as they walked briskly through the aisles and farther from the skylight, she wondered how Chase could even see. Her own implants compensated, switching to night vision. Thanks, Dad.

At the back of the store a much brighter light appeared, if localized. As Chase promised, they were nearing the Toys section, and a minute later Peyton caught high-pitched giggles accompanied by a loud whirring sound. They turned the corner and came upon a small circle of children all sprawled out on the floor. The light, she realized, came from a couple of lamps powered by a generator that was producing the whirring noise she'd heard.

Peyton took a closer look. Toys she remembered from her childhood were scattered everywhere: beautiful Barbies with long, flowing hair, das.h.i.+ng Ken dolls with their anatomically correct parts. (She and Avery were scandalized to learn they hadn't always been manufactured that way.) These kids had every toy she could think of except the electronic ones, and sim decks, which were likely too expensive to run with limited battery power.

She did a quick count. Eight children, ranging in ages six to fourteen, and about as many nationalities. The oldest two, a girl and boy, were arguing in a corner, while the younger ones contented themselves with play. There was even a set of boy triplets with shocks of carrot-colored hair and matching pug noses. But what seemed strangest of all was their outfits: a total mish-mash of colors and patterns, not a single one of which matched. Even stranger, the kids all wore makeup-even the boys. Or was it war paint? she wondered, because the swirling cheek and forehead designs appeared almost tribal. The whole thing reminded her of a book her dad had once made her read: The Lord of the Flies. Of course, Walmart was no jungle, and these kids had no hope of a rescue plane swooping down anytime soon.

”So they're all orphans?” she asked Chase in wonder. ”And you brought them all here?”

A laugh sounded behind Peyton, making her jump. ”Chase? He would have let them all be killed if it was up to him.”

Peyton whirled around to see a good-looking, barrel-chested man approach. He had long dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a trim beard. He walked up to Chase and Peyton and held out his hand. ”I'm Tank,” he said. ”Chase's brother.” He looked her up and down. ”I wondered where my little brother had gone. Ran off like an idiot. Now I see why.”

”He always thinks the best of me,” Chase grunted. ”Tank, this is Peyton. Remember the Andersons? From down the street?”

Tank gave her a double take. ”Peyton Anderson?” he repeated with a whistle. ”d.a.m.n. Aren't you all grown up?”

Peyton felt her face heat under his gaze. ”Don't mind him,” Chase quickly interjected, giving his brother a dirty look. ”He's a bit desperate. Four years without p.o.r.n sims, you know. Or real life girls, for that matter.”

”Hey, what about Anna Simmons?” Tank protested. ”When we were still at the refugee camp?”

”Yeah, right. That happened.”

”If she told you otherwise it was only to keep you from getting jealous.”

”As if I'd touch that slag with a ten-foot pole.”

Peyton squirmed, feeling uncomfortable and out of place amongst the casual banter and friendly play. It was as if she'd just come out of a sim, and the real world still felt a little, well, unreal. It was going to take some getting used to, being around people again. Sure, she had had her mother down in the shelter, but the woman was always so drugged out it was tough to hold many real conversations. It was amazing she hadn't gone crazy, alone with her thoughts for all these years.