Part 14 (1/2)

”It's kind of a mess out there,” I say, pouring water for Ethan. ”Looks like n.o.body's been in here in years.”

Clay looks at me, puzzled. ”I'd heard of people trading here last year. I can't figure what happened.”

”Did you see anything when ... you know ...” I frown and glance at Ethan. ”When you saw that thing in the alley?” Ethan's eyes are locked on me. I smile as if I've nothing to hide.

”She means the body. Do you know how he died?” Ethan asks matter-of-factly.

Clay and I stare at Ethan with our mouths open.

Ethan scowls. ”You guys think I don't notice anything. I'm eight, not four.” He's trying to be so big, but when he sticks out his lower lip at the end of his sentence, all I can see is the baby I touted around the yard on my hip.

Clay nods. ”Sorry, hoss. We'll do better.”

I nod, but I'm lying. He'll be my baby brother whether he's eight or eighty.

Clay shakes his head as his eyes turn toward the open window. ”There was nothing on the body to show what killed him. It was in bad shape, decay-wise. And the d.a.m.n dog didn't help. I didn't see gunshots or stab wounds, so that's something. But it doesn't tell us much.”

”At least with no people, we can get what we need and get out,” I say. I don't want to hang around here very long. Other than our little cla.s.sroom, the rest of this town feels like a morgue.

”Fuel and water. Those are our main priorities.” Clay holds up two fingers. ”Riley already got us water. If we can find fuel, we can jack one of the cars we saw and hit the road.”

He makes it sound so easy. I look out the busted cla.s.sroom window toward the blue sky outside. I hope it is.

We dig through our bags for breakfast. Ethan pulls out a hunk of bread wrapped in paper. We split it and try to chew the hard crust as best we can. My stomach growls, but I quiet it with more water. It'll do for a while.

We work through each room for supplies. This time, with the boys at my back, I lose my fear. I pull open cupboards, frighten mice and spiders out of their homes, dig through moldy wads of paper. Ethan pockets a sheet of gold stars, soggy but miraculously somewhat sticky. Clay finds a heavy-duty pair of scissors with decent blades, an empty aluminum water bottle and a ball of twine. I pick up many things, kid's socks, a mug that says World's Best Teacher, a little pink boot with daisies painted on it. My mind wanders to times when these things were in use. What did these people look like? Were they happy? What happened to them? I leave each item in its dust outline where they'll decay like the rest of this place.

Cla.s.srooms pilfered, we find a set of double doors.

”Gymnasium,” Clay reads on the sign above the doors. ”Come on.”

We push through the double doors and find a large echoing room with a wood floor and bleachers on either side. Two hoops with nets stand on each end of the floor. There's a board with faded numbers on the far wall.

”Basketball,” Clay says, pointing to the hoops. ”Teams of five dribble a ball back and forth. They try to scores as many points by shooting the ball into a hoop. The town south of mine had an outdoor court.”

Ethan and I walk around and examine everything, the tilting bleachers, the hoop with the fraying net. When this school was in use, the kids got to play games. Their life couldn't have been so bad. Ethan finds a flat orange ball and tries to bounce it. The noise of the ball smacking the floor makes me jumpy. Eventually, I shoot him a look and he sets the ball down.

We push through another set of double doors and find a similar s.p.a.ce with rows of tables and benches. Some are turned over. Some are covered in bits of ceiling that have fallen down. Big gray bins are stuffed with ancient food wrappers and paper napkins that flow out and trail across the floor. I walk over and peer in the bins. This trash has been here so long it doesn't even smell. We find nothing but useless garbage, but I know we're getting close.

A doorway at the back leads to a dark kitchen. There's rusty old metal stoves and empty molding refrigerators. We find a few utensils scattered around the floor and in the drawers. In another drawer I find red and yellow packets, some kind of food dressing that still looks edible. I drop them into my pocket. Clay snags a decent looking frying pan and a serrated knife. Then Ethan calls my name.

I run toward the sound of his voice. He's standing in a little pantry stacked with shelves. Most are empty. At the bottom though, I see some large metal cylinders the size of small drums. He hefts one up. The label has fallen off and decayed, but on the top in small writing I see a label. ”Green beans,” I read slowly. I smile and pat him on the head. ”Nice job, Superman.”

He hefts the can and smiles so wide I can see all his little, white teeth.

We take two trips to carry all of the cans back to our cla.s.sroom where we stack them neatly. We've scored three cans of green beans, two cans of what's called fruit c.o.c.ktail, two cans of baked beans and a can of corn. It's a good haul. I smile as I look at our stack.

”How do we get one open?” I ask.

”I saw a can opener in the kitchen drawer. I'll go grab it,” Clay says.

”I'll get it.” I have to pee from all the water I drank anyway. It'll give me a good excuse to go alone.

I head out of the cla.s.sroom and down the hall toward the bathroom. Just before the ladies' room I notice our tracks, three sets of shoe prints in the dust on the floor. We've been all over this school and it shows. Then something draws my attention: the large boot prints running along the far wall, fresh in the layer of dust. They're too big to be any of ours and they weren't there a few hours ago.

We aren't alone.

Chapter Fifteen.

I run back to our cla.s.sroom and slam the door. I stand against it, panting, wide-eyed. Clay and Ethan were sorting through a deck of cards they found in the kitchen. They stare up at me.

”What's going on?” Clay asks, standing up.

Ethan stands, too, still holding a six of clubs in his hand.

”Footprints,” I pant. ”Not ours. In the hall.”

Clay glances out the little window in our cla.s.sroom door. ”Maybe they're old.”

I shake my head. ”They're fresh.”

Clay pulls out one of his revolvers. His eyes get that look they always do when that silver revolver is cupped in his palm. ”I'll check it out. You stay with Ethan.”

I don't protest. Something about stalking through the quiet halls to meet some unknown predator doesn't seem fun to me. As he's opening the door, I put my hand on the door jam. ”Be careful,” I say as I look into his blue eyes, the color of a summer sky.

He lets a little smile dance across his face. ”Sounds like you're getting used to having me around.”

And he ruined it. ”Never mind,” I say, waving him out the door. ”Go be as reckless as you want. We're totally fine without you.”

”Liar,” he says, his smile growing. ”You need me.”

I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him.

He chuckles and then disappears out the door.

I sit with Ethan against the far wall with a revolver in my hand. The minutes tick by slowly. I listen, but hear little else but a few birdcalls from the window and my heart beat in my ears. Footsteps sound, heavy and coming this way. I rise, the gun leveled. It's Clay. He bursts back in our room.

”Anything?” I ask.

He shakes his head, holsters his gun and picks up the jug of water. He lifts it to his lips. I watch his Adam's apple rise and fall as he swallows. Then he drops the jug, panting. ”Ahh,” he sighs.

”What?” I say, impatient. ”What did you find?”

He smiles wryly. ”Thought you said you didn't need me.” He takes another long pull from the jug. I cross my arms over my chest and tap my foot. He can be so infuriating.

One more devious smile and then he sets the jug down. ”No sign of anyone except the footprints. Must've heard us come in, checked us out and took off. His trail leads out a lower window. Just curious 'bout visitors.”