D. MacHale - Storm

“Yeah,” Olivia said sarcastically. “The future looks really rosy. We’ve all got so much to look forward to.”

“That’s it?” Kent asked. “That’s all you have to say about who you are?”

“What do you want to hear?” Jon asked defensively. “You want to know what books I read or what movies I like? You want to know my favorite food? Favorite team? Favorite color? None of that matters anymore, so why even think about it?”

Jon had lashed out so angrily that even Kent backed off. We sat there for a few seconds in silence, while Jon’s words ate at me.

“I think you’re wrong,” I finally said. “I think it does matter. We can’t forget who we were.”

“Unless you didn’t particularly like who you were,” Jon said. “Maybe this is a chance to become somebody new.”

They were simple but stunning words. It could be that for some people the destruction of the human race might actually offer a new beginning. People who were unhappy with their lives were given a chance to start fresh. To reinvent themselves. There was only one catch…

…you had to survive.

“I’m hungry,” Kent announced. “Who’s with me?”

We all were. Olivia, Jon, and I followed him back upstairs, where we deposited our headlamps and headed outside.

Night had fallen. A low, warm glow came from the windows of the long building that ran parallel to the one we had just left. The thought crossed my mind that it might be smart to block off any light coming from the windows that would tip-off the Air Force that people had congregated. Apparently Chris and his cowboys hadn’t thought of everything.

When we entered, we found ourselves in a large restaurant room. Light came from several battery-powered camp lanterns that rested on many of the tables. It wasn’t bright, but it was enough to see by. I guessed there were about thirty people eating. Some sat alone, others huddled in groups. They spoke softly, as if eating in a library.

“Kitchen’s that way,” one guy said to us, pointing.

I led the others through swinging doors and into a kitchen, where we were instantly hit with a wave of delicious smells.

“They’re cooking?” Kent said, surprised.

Other than the fact that the only light source came from strategically placed lanterns, the kitchen looked every bit like a fully functioning restaurant kitchen from before the attack. Two chefs were at stoves that held large pots and pans that were bubbling and steaming.

“It’s gas,” Jon said. “The burners are lit!”

It was a simple yet amazing sight that would have been commonplace only a few weeks before.

“Grab some plates at the end of the line,” a friendly chef called out. “Tonight we’ve got steaks.”

“Steaks!” Kent exclaimed. “You mean, like… real steaks?”

“Where did all this food come from?” I asked.

“You name it,” the chef replied. “We’ve got people scrounging all over the city. Can’t say how long the fresh stuff will last, so get it while you can.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Kent said and hurried toward the food.

We passed through a doorway into a section of the restaurant that was set up to serve the meal. Several people stood behind a long table spread with platters and bowls containing an impossible selection of food. There were salads, mashed potatoes, multiple varieties of rice, corn on the cob, apples, baked potatoes, glazed carrots, multiple varieties of soup, and, yes, steaks. Thick steaks. Juicy, cooked-to-perfection, impossible steaks.

“I think I’m dreaming,” Olivia said with dismay.

I was too hungry to question it. I grabbed a plate, then thought for a second and grabbed another plate. I filled one with potatoes and fruit, and on the other I picked out the heaviest steak I could find.

The servers behind the counter watched us with bemused smiles. At one point I made eye contact with an older woman chef who had been watching me and suddenly felt self-conscious.

“Am I being a pig?” I asked.

“Absolutely not,” she said with a laugh. “If you don’t eat it, somebody else will. Just don’t make yourself sick if you haven’t eaten in a while.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I said and continued to load my plate.

The last time I had eaten a hot meal was when we were prisoners in the SYLO camp on Pemberwick Island. How long ago was that? It felt like a lifetime. My stomach thought so too. The smell of food brought on a growl of anticipation.

At the end of the line were juices that actually seemed to be fresh-squeezed. They must ha ve been using up whatever fresh fruit was still around before it went bad. I grabbed a glass of lemonade. This may not have been the greatest meal I had ever eaten, but it sure felt like it.

We claimed a table in the restaurant and ate without a word. Ta lking would have slowed the input. I had to force myself to eat slowly for fear my stomach would reject the tonnage that I was shoveling down. I also didn’t want to look like an animal.

Kent didn’t have the same concern. He ate furiously, shoving in whatever he could balance on a fork. Jon wasn’t much better. Olivia ate too. I’d never seen a girl gorge the way she did. At one point we made eye contact, and she gave me an embarrassed smile… before letting out a deep boomer of a belch.

We both laughed and continued to chow.

At one point the lady server came up and stood over our table.

“I see we have some healthy appetites here,” she said warmly. “Don’t be shy about going for seconds.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before Kent and Jon were on their feet and racing each other back to the kitchen.

“Somebody’s going to get sick,” Olivia said. “It might be me.”

“You wouldn’t be alone,” the woman said. “Newcomers are always overindulging. It’s human nature.”

“This is incredible,” I said. “I mean, it’s a feast.”

“Some days are better than others,” the woman said. “Everyone has something to offer. It’s amazing what can be accomplished when your sole purpose is to take care of one another. Enjoy.”

The woman moved on to another table to see how they were enjoying their meal.

“I could get used to this,” Olivia said as she bit into a perfectly ripe tomato, the dark red juice running down her chin.

“It’s not bad,” I had to admit.

“It’s all so… civilized,” Tori said with disdain as she sat down at the table with a plate of food. Her bag was draped over her shoulder.

“What did the doctor say?” I asked.

“Not much. He pulled off the bandage, grunted as if it was exactly what he expected to see, put a few drops of antibiotic or something on the wound, wrapped me back up with fresh gauze, and sent me on my way. He didn’t even look me in the eye. Now I know what a dog feels like at the veterinarian. No, I take that back. At least a dog gets a pat on the head.”

“He’s probably exhausted from treating so many patients,” Olivia offered.

“No. He just didn’t care. What’s with the feast? Are these people living in denial or what?”

“They’re making the best of a bad situation,” I offered.

“They should spend less time getting comfortable and start worrying a little more about how to stop this from happening again.”

She put her head down and ate. A lot.

I said, “You’ve been doing nothing but criticizing these people, but you sure take advantage of what they’ve got to offer.”

Tori didn’t look at me. She said, “Why not? I’m not stupid. But as soon as I’m back up to speed, I’m out of here… with or without you people.”

That was it. Tori was headed for Nevada. Maybe it was the right thing to do, I didn’t know. I needed time to sort out my own thoughts. My only consolation was that she needed some time to heal. Maybe by the time she was ready to leave, I would be too.