Baby, though, ends with They all lived happily ever after, just like I taught her.
I hope, she tells me, that we can live happily ever after.
I hug her, trying not to cry. You and me both, I think, kissing the top of her head.
I like this one, Baby signs into my hand. She holds up a candy bar, its wrapper dusty and crinkled.
Is it sealed? I ask. At this point everything in the grocery store is expired, but things last a lot longer than companies let on. It’s all those preservatives. I taught Baby to check for rancid chips and candy and to only gather cans that have no dents and aren’t all bulgy. We have stomach medicine at home, but I don’t want to trust treating botulism with three-year-old pink bismuth.
Yes, it’s sealed. Baby smiles up at me. Also, I found this. She holds up a box of macaroni and cheese. She manages to move the box without all the noodles crashing together like a maraca.
Fan, I tell her. Good job. I taught Baby “fan” as very good. I made up the sign: hand just below your face, gesture like you’re fanning yourself on a hot summer day. I like keeping the word my friends and I always used. It’s like having a bit of Sabrina with me at times. It hurts, but in a strange way it makes me stronger.
Baby beams. She loves being helpful. As she grew older, I let her come with me more often. We’d soon pilfered everything in the corner store near my house and had to walk farther and farther for supplies. She can carry a surprising amount for a child, and I never have to worry about her making noise. She is excellent at staying quiet. She also has exceptional hearing, sometimes alerting me to Them before I’m even aware They are near.
What’s this? she asks me, holding up a plastic cell phone filled with candy.
Candy, I tell her.
No, the outside. Baby wants to know about everything. It’s annoying sometimes, but I’m secretly glad she isn’t traumatized by our lifestyle. I would have thought a little kid like that would shut down completely when faced with Them.
It’s something from Before, I explain. People used it to talk.
Like books?
I shake my head. No, with their mouths.
Baby smirks slightly and raises her eyebrows. She thinks I’m joking. It’s been so long since she’s heard anyone speak, she doesn’t remember what it’s like.
I try to explain. Before They came, everyone didn’t use their hands to talk. They used their mouths. Well, except for deaf people, but I don’t want to confuse her.
Baby’s face scrunches in disbelief and confusion. Then it turns suddenly to stone. Noise, she signs.
Baby and I immediately grab our bags and back quietly away into the aisle. We hear footsteps. We look at each other. Footsteps mean shoes. The creatures don’t wear shoes.
I’ll look, Baby signs into my hand. I nod once. She soundlessly drops her bag and doubles around to the side of the store. I don’t like sending her off, but she is excellent at spying.
I listen to the footsteps. They’re coming from the front of the store near the registers. They are not slow and they are not cautious. Anyone who went around making a racket like that shouldn’t have survived this long.
Baby touches my elbow. She’s returned silently. A woman. Alone.
I think for a moment. Grab your bag.
Are we going to meet her? Baby asks, wide eyed.
No. It could be a trap.
Baby nods. She’s very loud. Does she want Them to come?
Maybe, but even if she doesn’t, they’ll be here soon. Let’s go.
We take the long way around, avoiding the footsteps and their owner. We are almost to the door when I feel a tickle in my throat. I swallow twice trying to fight the urge. The tickle climbs up my throat to my sinuses. I try to hold it in but I can’t help the small noise that escapes me as I sneeze.
Baby freezes.
“Wait,” I hear from somewhere in the store.
Go, I tell Baby. Fast.
“Please, wait.” The woman runs toward us, yelling. “Don’t leave me here.”
I grab Baby’s hand and hurry to the door. Whoever the woman is, she has zero self-preservation skills.
We make it through the door just as a car alarm sounds. Baby stops, startled by the unnaturally loud noise. I think for a moment that it’s me, that I accidentally triggered the alarm I carry in case I need a diversion. The noise isn’t coming from my bag, but blaring from across the street. When the realization takes hold, I notice that Baby is still frozen in place. I pull Baby’s arm and push her into some overgrown bushes. I crouch down, searching for the source of the noise.
A red pickup truck across the street is loaded with men. My jaw drops. There are ten of them at least, each with a rifle. It’s the largest group of people I have seen since Before. One of the men stands on top of the truck. He holds up a bullhorn and clicks it on with a beep.
“COME ON, YOU SLIMY GREEN BASTARDS!”
It has only been a few seconds since the siren sounded, but already They are running toward the truck. The men form a circle, facing outward, their weapons raised and aimed at the creatures’ heads. If They are merely wounded they continue to crawl forward, even when they are missing arms and legs.
Baby shakes next to me, her head buried in my arm, her eyes closed tight. I’m glad she isn’t watching. She doesn’t need to witness a massacre.
As more and more of Them arrive, the men are forced back against the truck. Please don’t die, I think. I don’t want it to end this way. They shouldn’t throw their lives away just to take a few of Them out. It isn’t worth it.
It’s not long before the situation begins to look hopeless for the men. The creatures are about to overwhelm the truck. There are too many to continue fighting, but the men keep shooting. They take out several more of Them, but others take their place.
Finally the men retreat. As quickly as they arrived, they jump into the flatbed of the red truck, still shooting. The man with the bullhorn hurries to the driver’s seat and steps on the gas. The truck is surrounded, but they plow through the mass of creatures taking at least ten of Them out. I smile. They are not on a suicide mission. They are guerrilla warriors.
The truck drives away, tires screeching. The creatures follow, running after it as fast as they can, which is sickeningly fast. The silence that follows is frightening after so much noise.
Is it over? Baby signs.
Yes, but we have to wait here until it’s clear.
Baby raises her head to look out. Talking with your mouth is scary, she says, referring to the man with the bullhorn.
It is. But it wasn’t Before. Our brief encounter with chaos makes me homesick for that other time. I try not to think about Before.
Amy. Baby touches my elbow urgently.
A pair of legs appears before our hiding space. I look up. It’s the woman from the grocery store, who I’d forgotten about during the commotion.
“Don’t leave me,” she shrieks. I’m furious and panicked—she is going to bring Them right to us.
I pull her down into the bushes and put my hand over her mouth. I hope she doesn’t struggle, but as soon as she is within the cover of our hiding place, her body goes limp. I leave my hand where it is as a reminder to be quiet.
We’re lucky. After the commotion, They don’t react very quickly to the woman’s outburst. They are too busy gnawing on the remains of the creatures that were killed. It is dark, so as long as we stay quiet, they won’t find us.
They feed for a long time, eating every bit of their dead, their sharp teeth chewing through skin, muscle, and bone. Their feeding noises sicken me, slurps with the occasional crunch. Two fight over an arm, wrestle on the ground. I hope they hurt each other but one eventually relents.
I glance at the woman. She’s more of a girl really, maybe a few years older than I am. Her face is slack, her eyes dull. I take my hand off her mouth and rest it on Baby’s trembling shoulder. I need to distract her, to distract myself.
What was that story, from the other day? I ask. The one about the mermaid.
Baby puts her hand in mine. The fish princess lived in the lake, where no monsters could reach her. Baby’s eyes are closed, her lips parted slightly.
For the moment she is at the bottom of the sea with the mermaid, not hiding in a bush watching aliens pig out on other aliens. She expands on her earlier story, explaining in detail the lives of the little mermaid’s sisters. “Sister” was the sign I’d taught Baby for what we are to each other.
I feel her fingers move against my hand, relaying her story in a language only we understand. The movement is comforting, but I remain tense and anxious as we wait for Them to leave. I have no idea what to do with the girl lying beside us.
It is almost dawn before the creatures clear out. Baby has fallen asleep, so I shake her awake. I stand and stretch, my muscles sore from sitting in the same position for too long.
What about her? Baby points to the girl, awake but unmoving. I shrug.
Leave her. My main concern is getting Baby back to the house before first light.
We can’t. Baby’s eyes plead. She’s . . . I can see Baby search for the right word . . . She’s sick.
I want to tell Baby no, that the girl can’t come with us, but I look into her eyes and I can’t. I think of the time I found her in that grocery store, when I almost left her. The guilt is too much.
I reach back into the bushes and grab the girl by the wrist.
“What . . .” she starts to speak. I put my finger over my lips and breathe out slightly. If this girl isn’t going to be quiet, I am going to leave her, no matter what Baby wants.
Luckily the girl gets the idea and follows us, her shoes thumping on the pavement. I stop her and point at her feet. She looks at me blankly. I hold out my own foot, bare and calloused.
She quickly slips off her shoes. She holds them in her arms, waiting. I motion for her to follow and we make our way back home.
“Swanky,” the girl says once we are inside. I look at her, unwilling to speak. Her dark eyes and hair contrast sharply with the whiteness of her skin. She is painfully pale, but then, so am I.
We should give her food. Baby suggests. I nod and Baby runs to make us breakfast.