We creep out the back door and edge along the wall, inching toward the back gate. There might be a man back here, I sign to Baby. If they planned the whole thing out, then Amber will have told them about the back gate.
Amy, careful. I see someone. Baby motions with her hand.
I look to where her finger points. Where the moonlight shines against the gate, a shadow moves back and forth, pacing.
I have an idea, I tell her. Give me the key and be ready to follow. Baby digs in her pocket and hands me the key. She steps behind me and I pull out the gun and hold it tightly in my right hand. I stalk toward the back gate, my feet barely making a sound on the soft ground. In one motion, I put the key in the lock, turn it, and pull with all my might.
I jump through the opening into the alley, aiming the gun at the figure. I’m lucky. He’s only a few feet from the entrance. I move as fast as I can and place the barrel to the man’s temple.
He sucks in a breath. “Please. Don’t,” he whimpers.
He isn’t a man. He’s a boy, fourteen or fifteen at the most. I almost feel bad for him, but then my anger flares up. These men are taking away our home.
The boy holds a handgun limply in his hand. I grab it from him and shove it toward Baby. Baby cradles it to her chest and watches us. Pushing the boy down to his knees, I press the barrel of my gun right up against the back of his head.
I could kill him. I have the silencer. The creatures might sniff out his body before his friends break through the fence. They might never know we’ve killed him, assuming instead he is a victim of Them.
Baby’s hand on my back brings me back to my senses. The boy is blubbering and he smells like urine. He’s pissed himself. I can’t kill him, but I can’t leave him to run back to his friends and tell on us. We need a head start.
I raise my arm and hit the boy as hard as I can with the butt of the gun. He falls over and slumps against the gate.
Baby backs away from me, horrified. Did you kill him?
No. He’s just asleep, I assure her.
She looks at me doubtfully. She steps forward to inspect him. She moves his arm with her foot. The boy moans and his head jerks slightly.
She steps back, satisfied.
He won’t be asleep for long, I warn her. Where’s the gun I gave you?
Put it in my pack.
Good. We have to go.
Baby runs toward me, her hand outstretched. I grab it and lead her away from our house, through a neighbor’s yard, out onto the street.
Where are we going? she asks.
I don’t answer. I have a few houses in mind, none very secure. Night is only just beginning. We have plenty of time to find somewhere to hide before daylight. Baby is safe for now; that is what’s important.
Together we jog in the direction of the lake. There is a house I pilfered a few months ago that has a largish attic. It is musty and crowded with boxes, but it will be a good place to spend the day. It’s not far, maybe half a mile.
We make it there long before dawn. I find some old blankets in a closet and spread them out on the floor. It isn’t super comfy but it will still pass as a bed for Baby.
Eat something now, I tell her. We can’t make any noise during the day. At all.
Baby unwraps a candy bar. Even as quiet as she is, the wrapper crinkles. We are not protected here. We have no fence to keep Them out now.
After Baby eats, she looks at the book she packed, turning each page with care. She falls asleep clutching it close to her body and I carefully take it from her hands and place it back in her bag.
At dawn, I watch from the attic window as the streets fill with Them. I can’t stand the sight and sit next to Baby. I try to sleep, but can’t.
I pull the picture of my parents out of my bag, taking the photo out of the heavy frame. I feel the smoothness in my hand. I touch the happy image, leaving white fingerprints all over their faces.
Everything I had is now gone. I am feeling so sick and numb inside. I look at the picture until it blurs, tears falling down my face.
Once again, my world has ended.
CHAPTER TWELVE
We stay in the attic a couple of nights, but I soon realize that we need to keep moving if Baby and I are going to remain sane. We can’t stay in one place and pretend it’s our home. It’s too much like being trapped. We have to get used to a completely different life.
There is no fence to protect us if Baby accidentally drops her book or if one of us coughs. I long for summer to end, for the days to be shorter. But then I remember that we won’t have any heat. Maybe we can find a room to burn a fire, keep the light inside somehow. I have some time to figure it all out. As of now, we have to wait until nightfall to even use the bathroom.
Not that there are working bathrooms to use. When I explain to Baby that she will have to go to the bathroom and not flush the toilet, she looks at me like I am insane.
There’s no water, I explain. And even if there was, the flush would be too loud. At our house we only used the bathroom in the basement. You couldn’t hear it from outside. I realize I have to stop thinking of our house; we can’t go back there.
We also have to get used to not bathing regularly.
You smell, Baby tells me after a week. We are holed up in a basement near the park, waiting for day to end.
You’re not exactly lemon fresh yourself, I inform her.
We need to wash our clothes too. She tugs at her shirt, stained with sweat and dust.
I agree. I feel so gross. It’s taking me a while to work things out. We can go to the lake tonight and take a swim, I suggest at last. It is creepy to be out in the open like that, but I am pretty sure They don’t like large bodies of water. We’ve gone to the lake to retrieve drinking water, but I don’t want to run into any other survivors. Not yet anyway.
I don’t know how to swim, Baby signs.
You don’t have to swim. We’ll go to the beach. You can just stand in the water. It will be like a big tub.
Can we bring soap? Baby asks.
Sure. Why not?
But we drink that water. She shakes her head. I smile. If she knew the sign for duh, she would have made it.
We’ll bathe far from where we get water for drinking. It’s a big lake, Baby.
Maybe—she looks at me slyly—you can teach me to swim.
No. It would be too much noise, I explain. Baby frowns and twirls her hair. She’s started pulling out strands lately. I tell her to stop, but she still tugs at it when she thinks I’m not looking.
Leave your hair alone. Do you want to be bald?
She pouts. She looks at her book for a while, then signs, I’m hungry.
It’s not dark yet. You can’t eat. Usually before daybreak I unwrap some food for us to eat, but I didn’t have a chance to last night. We barely found the basement in time. It is the closest we’ve ever cut it to being out at first light.
Baby pulls at her hair again. I don’t know if it is from the stress or the boredom, but she needs something more than surviving the day. I need something more too. We are stuck.
The lake is beautiful at night, even a dark, cloudy night like tonight. It’s strange to see the city skyline illuminated only by faint moonlight. Gone are the days of light pollution, and I wish I could remember the last time I saw the city at night from the lake, and who I was with. Fourth of July with my father? Out during the summer with Sabrina?
We avoid the harbor area, where boats, half sunk, jut dangerously from the water. They could not survive the first winter in the ice-covered lake. Later I may look for a lifeboat or a dingy, something to take Baby out farther into the water.
It’s cold. The way Baby moves her hands is the sign language equivalent of shouting.
It’s good. I’ve already dunked myself in the water and am trying to convince Baby to wade in deeper than her ankles. If you just come in a little more, you’ll get used to it.
She folds her arms across her chest and moves a little farther into the water. She’s shivering. I hold out my hand to her. She was happy to strip down for relief from the sweltering, humid heat, but when faced with the cold expanse of water, she shied away.
Come on, don’t be afraid.
I’m not afraid. She inches forward, taking small, dramatic steps.
If you come out here I’ll wash your hair. I hold the bottle of shampoo up and shake it temptingly.
Oh, all right. She plunges into the water, splashing slightly. I eye the shore. We aren’t being very loud, but I’m still concerned. I don’t know if They can swim.
Baby’s eyes are distractingly white, reflecting the moon. I can’t help but think how eerie it is, as she makes her way toward me. She blinks and her eyes look normal again, a trick of the light.
I stand where I know her head will be above the water. Her teeth chatter slightly with the shock of the cold and she opens her mouth wide to stop the noise.
You’ll be warm once you get used to it, I tell her. I squirt the shampoo into my hand and massage it onto her head. We can do this every night in the summer, but maybe we will get used to a bath once a week during the cool months, and not at all in the winter.
I scrub Baby’s scalp with my fingers while she holds the shampoo bottle. She squeezes it to make bubbles in the water.
Okay, now hold your nose and dunk your head.
She takes a deep breath, puffs out her cheeks, and holds her nose. She slowly lowers her head into the lake, her eyes open wide. She wants to see what is under the water.
Close your eyes, I quickly sign. You’ll get soap in them.
She snaps her eyes shut just as her head disappears. I see her outline under the water, her hands in her hair trying to rinse out the shampoo. When her head breaks the surface, she grins.
Feel better? I ask.
I like taking baths in the lake. Her blond hair shines in the moonlight.
Baby, would you like to learn how to float?
She nods eagerly. I put my hand on her back. Lie flat.
On what?
On the water, like it’s a bed. Take a deep breath first.
Baby gulps in some air and moves back into my hand. I push up slightly and Baby’s feet rise. She instinctively holds her arms out on the water’s surface. When I feel she is stable, I let go, holding my hand above her face so she can see my gestures.