Kristen Simmons: Three

Chase’s brow was furrowed as he returned to the porch. He handed Rebecca the metal brace and removed the radio from the bag. The metal box now had a dent in the top, but the red light was still flashing, and the cord for the microphone was still connected. I sighed, relieved.

“It was my fault, going so far ahead. We’ll stick together from now on,” Chase said, tucking the radio back inside the bag.

I forced my mouth to straighten. “I had it covered.”

“Yes,” he said with a reluctant smirk. “You did.”

Rebecca cleared her throat. “We were so far behind because the other team called.”

Chase looked to me, brows raised. While I told them what Tucker and I had discussed, he watched me closely, seeming to read my reactions more than listen to my words. I didn’t tell him I’d brought up my mom; I didn’t have to. He knew the conflict I faced every time I spoke to Tucker.

“Well, that sounds awkward,” said Sean.

“Thanks,” I said. He gave a short chuckle and threw his arm around my shoulder, just for a second until he caught Rebecca’s hurt expression and quickly stepped away. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen him touch her so easily and couldn’t.

When my pulse had finally slowed, and Rebecca was back on her feet—if somewhat crookedly—I followed the others inside. It seemed strange that they didn’t have to break the lock. It was the first house we’d come across where the door was already open.

Even in the rain the stench that burst from within was unbearable. I hiked up the collar of my shirt around my nose, fighting the urge to throw up, and tried not to think about the oil spill on the beach.

The front living room was completely preserved in its original state, evoking such a strong pang of nostalgia my chest clenched. The couch may have been covered by a thin skin of dust, but the pillows were still at perfect angles, and on the coffee table in front of it were three pre-War magazines, the pages warped and faded, but still readable.

I could imagine a steaming mug of Horizons hot chocolate on the table.

A wax candle, flame flickering.

My mother, toes curled under the back cushion.

I was vaguely aware of Chase, rifling through the kitchen, and the sound of drawers opening and closing.

I picked up one of the magazines and flipped through the pages, looking at the pictures of happy women, sexy women, clad in swimsuits and revealing clothes the FBR would later ban as immoral. There were articles on the pages; I didn’t read them, just scanned the print. It had been so long since I’d read something not sanctioned by the MM.

“WHERE’Dyou get that?”

My mother grinned, her eyes bright with mischief. She flipped through the pages of the worn magazine as though she was really interested, not just trying to get a rise out of me.

“Might have picked it up from one of the ladies at the soup kitchen.” She pursed her lips.

“Might have,” I repeated with a frown. “You know we’ve got an inspection coming up.” The MM hadn’t been through in almost a month. We were running on borrowed time. Every day this week I’d checked the house before and after school to make sure nothing contraband was lying around.

“Oh, live a little,” she said, rolling up the magazine and smacking me on the arm. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff they used to write in these things.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“What kind of stuff?” I asked.

Her smile was triumphant. “Oh, you know. Just your run-of-the-mill treason.”

MAKEUPtips. Gossip about movie stars. And sometimes mixed in, political stories about the rise of the Federal Bureau of Reformation. Concerns about President Scarboro’s moral platform, and what that meant for women’s rights and religious freedom. The writers snuck those stories in between glamorous photo shoots and new fashions. They never advertised them on the front covers. They must have known the danger of what they were writing, even then.

“What are you looking at?” Rebecca asked.

I fought the sudden urge to keep it for myself and take it with me. The memories were too sharp: going home after the arrest, learning that all my things had been taken by the MM. My best friend Beth had managed to snag only a few items—one of my mother’s magazines that we’d later lost in the tunnels in Chicago among them. It seemed wrong to take this now, when it could mean so much to someone who might one day come back.

Still, it hurt to hand it over to Rebecca.

I winced at the tracks my boots left over the carpet and wandered down the hallway toward the back rooms, bypassing the kitchen.

The bedroom door squeaked as I pushed it open. Just inside was an antique wooden dresser, covered with a doily and a small silver comb. I cringed at my reflection in the round mirror atop it—my cropped hair flat and fading back from black to brown, my skin too pink from the sun.

And then, beside me in that reflection, I saw the two bodies lying on the bed, and screamed.

DEAD.Inhuman. Brown shells of skin and lips drawn back into leathery snarls. Holes where there should have been eyes. Painted skeletons dressed up in moth-eaten clothes.

My heel caught in a floor rug and I stumbled backward into the wall. It knocked the wind out of me, or maybe I didn’t have any to begin with, because when I tried to swallow another breath I couldn’t.

The bodies were moving now, coming alive on their floral comforter. A whispering, scuttling sound, and the clothing shifted. I was paralyzed, my muscles frozen. I’d landed near the foot of the bed, and watched in horror as a faded pink house slipper twisted slightly on its boney ankle and then slid off an old weathered foot as if pulled by some invisible hand.

From the slipper erupted a legion of roaches, each the length of my thumb, flowing like lava from a volcano.

I scrambled backward into the hallway, then leaped to my feet. Chase appeared, saying my name, but I couldn’t hold on to it. I stared past him through the door, to Sean, who’d arrived moments after Chase, now grimacing over the bodies. They weren’t moving. It was the roaches that were moving. Hundreds of them. They were everywhere.

I jolted back, swiping my hands down my arms, shaking out my hair. My skin itched like they were on me, under my clothes and on my neck and in my shoes. Get them off get them off get them off.

Chase grabbed my face between his hands, and finally my gaze locked on his. There was a steadiness there that grounded me and slowed my pulse.

“Why are they here?” I asked, suddenly angry at them—the dead people. They shouldn’t have scared me. I’d seen worse. Much worse.

“Let’s go get some air,” he said.

I peeled his fingers away.

“Why didn’t they clear out like everyone else?” There wasn’t any sign of violence; it was like they’d laid down to sleep and not woken up, and for some reason this bothered me even more.

“I don’t know.”

“They should have evacuated.” The government had cleared this area years ago.

I swiped at my arms again, feeling the tickle on my skin.

“Maybe they didn’t want to.” He chewed his bottom lip, looking into the room.

His words shifted my fear to something more solid, something stronger. I’d had it backward. These people hadn’t given up, they’d made their stand. Maybe that was all we really got: a choice to control our own fate.

“I hate roaches,” Sean was saying. “They’ll eat anything, you know. Glue. Trash. Fingernails. They even eat each other. Roach cannibals. Disgusting.”