Карл Бистром - 4:17

The three of them started traveling together and soon began to build up Peter’s vision, developing a set of rules and customs attuned to the realities of the new world. Peter was driven. He saw a clear path out of the chaos and anarchy that threatened to extinguish them all, but Anya knew the vision was flawed. Peter was gambling on defunct presumptions about power and community, but Scott felt inspired and she had grown to depend on him, so they agreed to travel together—a tiny band of idealists. She figured they’d ride that wave until it crested, then move on.

Scott was the only man, the only person, that Anya had ever really trusted. At first, she took his advances as sexual. His deferential respect seemed like just another strategy to get down her pants, but when she confronted him about it he seemed aghast.

“I don’t want to have sex with you!”

“Why not?” She said, taunting his lies. “I’m not sexy?”

“You’re plenty attractive.” He looked her up and down. “You just don’t seem to want sex. And that’s… you know… a turn off.”

“Why do you stay with me if I don’t turn you on?” She frowned and cocked her head. “You’re gay?”

“No.” He looked at her quizzically, as if to check if she was teasing. At that point, she wasn’t. “You are the strongest, most intelligent, most exasperatingly cynical person I’ve ever met. You also have an amazing nose for canned goods.” He smiled and shrugged. “Why would I leave?”

At first Anya had no interest in the man as a sex object, despite his sparkling green eyes. Scott had too much hair—long, dreaded locks that mingled with his beard in a wholly unpleasant tangle. He stubbornly refused to shave, offering a different reason every time she asked. After weeks of partnering, however, their bond pulled unrelentingly on her desire and they began to explore each others bodies with an intimacy she’d never experienced before.

“I want to make love to you,” she said one day.

“That… that fills me with joy.” He said, smiling broadly at her shoulder.

“But when we do it,” she said, reaching out for his hands. “You have to stare into my eyes the whole time.”

She didn’t think, didn’t believe for a second, that he would agree to those terms, but after only a moment’s thought he glanced up into her eyes and said: “Okay.”

Anya knew, in some deep way that she could never adequately explain, that Scott wouldn’t kill her, but she didn’t trust herself. She anticipated that at some point as he lay on top of her or while she straddled him, their lust pouring forth in jerks and spasms, that he would suddenly die—the victim of her sudden recognition that he was a man .

And they did it. They did it that very night and at least a dozen times after, staring into each other’s eyes, more vulnerable than they’d ever imagined, a thought away from death. Yet death never even crossed her mind.

Anya had never felt so alive.

But now she was alone again. She lay on the mattress exhausted and sad, one arm splayed out across the space that Scott had occupied only a day earlier. She remembered him laughing about how he was going to bring back a jar of raspberry jam—just for the two of them.

She hadn’t really slept. She woke repeatedly out of a recurring dream wherein she wandered the basement hideout executing all her companions. She must have looped through her fantasy four or five times during the night, each one a little different, each growing progressively more surreal. Her compatriots stood in odd places, shrunken to dwarves or ballooned into giants, sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone, jumping out at her from behind boxes or peering in through cloudy windows. She persevered on her bloody mission, over and over. She’d take Sara, always Sara first, Peter, Chad, Derek, sometimes even Scott, and Phoebe. Phoebe she killed with two spoken words: “Die, bitch.” She felt guilty for that. Phoebe seemed the only true innocent in the group, always accommodating, never greedy. She had voted to let Sara in, a stupid choice, but that was precisely because she was too nice. Trusting. Foolish. Anya felt sorry to abandon the girl, but she still couldn’t forgive her.

Six months since she gave up caring whether or not a man found her attractive, Anya still religiously applied her morning makeup. She had never worn it for anyone else anyway. She used the eyeliner, foundation, blush, and mascara to build her persona. Layers of confidence, emotional control, and focus accrued within her as she constructed her mask on the outside. It wasn’t a façade—she didn’t care what others saw or thought of her—the daily construction of her face was a ritual for her alone: an inventory, a tidying, an armoring.

Anya always took the extra time to grab handfuls of makeup whenever she went scavenging. After some initial comments and looks of derision, the others stopped judging. In fact, Phoebe had asked to borrow eyeliner just a week ago—an oddly poignant moment that cemented their bond.

Anya stopped before completing the eyeliner on her lower right waterline. She was tearing up and couldn’t focus. She breathed deep and blinked.

She needed to forge a new alliance. Her choices were limited. She couldn’t trust Sara, and Phoebe had burned her. Scott had gotten along with all the men, but that was because of the stereotypical male-bonding thing. Chad was handy but too soft and Ray never showed her any respect. She certainly wouldn’t sleep with Derek—and that’s all he wanted. Anya would never sleep with another man.

That left only Peter.

“Noooo!” Chad’s wail brought Anya up and out of her cubby without hesitation. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

She hurried toward the sound and arrived at the scene at the same time as Ray and Peter. Chad hunched near the ground cradling his daughter’s body.

“Who did this?!” He bellowed.

Other people shouted but Anya didn’t hear their words, she couldn’t take her eyes off Phoebe. Phoebe was dead. Just like in her dream.

Had it really only been a dream? Had she done this? Die, bitch. Had she killed the girl? But no, in her dream she killed all of them. Here, now, everyone was alive. Everyone except Phoebe. Had Anya dreamt her dead?

“Did you kill her by accident?” Chad shouted at Ray.

No, no, no. She couldn’t have. Could she? I don’t know! Anya thought as she looked up into Sara’s eyes.

Ray watched from behind his crazy-eyed glasses as Peter approached with the new arrival. She moved carefully, attentive. As they neared, Ray shot furtive glances at her face, although his eyewear was opaque from the outside he knew they offered no real protection; he’d seen hundreds of corpses wearing shades. The woman’s pale features looked like a fragile egg nestled inside her dark hair and the fur-lined hood of her winter coat. Her eyes darted around his kitchen and his face heated with embarrassment. He took pride in his domain but he suddenly saw it through her eyes, just a messier section of the basement.

He looked down and cranked the handle of the can opener.

“This is Ray,” Peter said, pointing with an open hand. “He’s our cook.”

“Fastest can opener this side of the Cascades!” Ray smiled as the top popped free. “Yeehaw!” He saw the young woman’s mouth spread in a laugh. If he couldn’t impress her with his housekeeping, at least he could make her laugh. He set down the opener, and held out the can. “Today’s favorite? Tangerines!”

“He’s not the best cook….” Peter said.

Ray’s grin didn’t waver. “But I’m fast.”

“She ran into the living room dressed in a unicorn onesie and holding a unicorn hobby-horse.” His friend’s entire face smiled when he talked about his daughter. “You know, a stick with a unicorn head on it?”