Darla motioned and snapped once and immediately the four of them trained their guns on the thief. Even Ainsley brought her hand up, although her weak wrist made it look like she was pointing the gun at the man’s feet.
“Don’t move,” Darla said. She was calm, as if discovering him was merely inconvenient, but her tone was still commanding. “Sit up and put your hands where I can see them.”
“I’m not armed,” the man replied. “I’m not armed,” he said again as he shifted to his knees and lifted his hands so the crowd could see.
“You have a productive day today?” Spencer asked, his voice dripping with contempt. “Maybe you wiped out our entire food supply? Maybe you thought you’d leave us to die? And you bought a little boy’s silence with a chocolate bar?”
The man was quiet. Then he licked his lips and blew a breath of air. “Look man,” he motioned toward the guns, “I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you lowered your weapons.”
“No,” Darla answered.
“I’m not armed and I’m not dangerous. So, maybe lower the guns out of my face?” The man raised his eyebrows and waited, and then he added, “Please?”
“What’s your name?” Darla asked, taking a step forward.
“Dean. Dean Trotter,” he answered and Darla exchanged a look with Spencer.
“Well, Dean,” Darla answered without budging, “I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. You have a preference of which I tell you first?”
Dean thoughtfully considered his options. “I want the bad news first.”
“Everything you took today from us…we’re taking it back. And we’re taking your generator. And we’re taking your truck and trailer to transport. Unless you’ve got a stash of weapons too and a small army hidden in your house, I’m pretty sure you’re screwed. But I’ll make a deal with you…you walk back for the truck and we’ll hand over the keys. I don’t need your truck.”
Dean coughed. “Look…”
“You don’t get to negotiate,” Spencer snapped. “Keep your mouth shut.”
“Fine,” Dean answered, lowering his head. “What’s the good news?”
Darla smiled, “We aren’t going to shoot you.”
Ainsley leaned forward a few inches and cocked her head. “And your son may be alive and on his way to Nebraska?” she added. “I never met the dude, I was just saying…in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” Dean replied. “Who else would’ve loaded up my brother’s balloon without my permission?” He scanned the faces of his captors and ran his hand through his hair, then he flashed them a sheepish grin, all teeth, and tossed his hands up. “Well, I’m sorry about the stuff, but you can’t blame a guy for trying. Right?”
“You can, actually,” replied Darla.
“You stole from a
child
,” Spencer added. “That didn’t cross your mind?”
Dean scrambled to his feet, still raising his hands. “Hey now. It wasn’t like that. I didn’t think…I thought you had
more
. Who puts all their food
outside
?”
“People who think they’re the only ones left in Oregon,” Ainsley replied. “But point taken.”
Darla shot her a look. Ainsley pursed her lips and shrugged.
“Well,” Dean continued. “Look, no hard feelings. Really…I’m just a dude trying to hunker down for the duration, you know? I’d been watching the houses… I didn’t want trouble. Just…I didn’t think you could follow me. My stash was dwindling…you run out of places to go. I want to start over. Can I start over?” He waited for their reply. Then he shot out his hand.
The group exchanged wearied glanced.
“I have weapons back at the house,” Dean added quickly. “And a large stockpile. I’ve hit up East County in my spare time…got the trailer up past 182
nd
one day. I’ll let you take a look. Maybe we can work out some trades. Your meals would make life easier.”
Darla shook her head with disbelief and Joey watched wide-eyed. Then he was the first to chuckle; a slow bubbling laugh that he tried to suppress and then, understanding its inappropriateness, it only seemed to grow. When he looked at Dean, he stood there with a half-smile on his face, watching Joey like he was a simpleton.
“I’m sorry,” Joey said after a long second. He covered his mouth his hand. “I’m sorry. Just…” he laughed again, “I think we just made a
friend
.”
Spencer muttered under his breath, but then was the first to lower his gun. “You’re a real piece of work, Dean,” Spencer said and he put his hand on Darla’s arm, encouraging her to follow suit. She resisted at first, shaking Spencer off, but then he gave her a solitary look—a moment just between them, and Darla dropped her weapon. Then he turned back to Grant’s dad and sighed, “I can’t decide if you’re a genius or an idiot.”
“Don’t think I haven’t heard that before,” Dean said with a smile. “Anyone up for a beer?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Scott moved Grant back into the lab, keeping a firm hand on the boy’s elbow as he directed him into the bright, sterile room. He bypassed securing Grant to the table, but Lucy’s father still seemed hesitant and on-edge, as if Grant might bolt. Which was a ridiculous worry, since Grant knew he was trapped. He’d been in the supply closet at least a few days, but maybe even longer, and Scott ventured down during strange and unpredictable hours to help Grant eat, go to the bathroom, and then he’d run his tests. Bruises formed along his arm from the poking and prodding after blood draws and other needle pricks. While Grant had never been squeamish about medical procedures, and he didn’t intend on starting now, he’d certainly taken a beating under Scott’s careful watch.
Whatever those tests were telling Scott King, Grant had not been privy to the details—but while he still tried to engage Grant in shallow conversations about books and movies, his entire demeanor suggested that he was a world away. Detached and distant, Scott treated Grant like a talking monkey: A fascinating specimen with intriguing ideas, worthy of basic conversation, but perhaps not human decency.
At the end of the day, here in the System, Grant was only a lab rat.
A lab rat with acute self-awareness.
His video collection pile was dwindling and during the hours of solitary confinement ennui was Grant’s most overwhelming emotion.
“I brought you some new books,” Scott said as Grant hopped up and walked out toward the lab, the schedule of events rooted firmly into place.
“You have a library in this place?” Grant asked.
Scott nodded. “Very well stocked, too,” he added.
Grant shrugged. “Did you have to decide what to bring? Was it like some committee of the best minds in literature sitting around some table all arguing with each other?” He sat up a little straighter and assumed a deep-announcer voice, “If you’re about to annihilate the world and live underground, what five books would you take with you?”
“Something like that,” Scott replied. “The difference is that over the course of time, we will have access to everything again. The books left above ground are not lost forever…just for a time,” he explained.
“Can I make requests then?” Grant asked. He thought maybe he’d try to read through all those books his high school teachers said were important, but he hadn’t ever tried to read. It was a start. The idea had come to him while he thought of Lucy—he remembered her trying to read through
Fahrenheit 451
while they had been trapped together. He thought maybe she’d be proud of him.
“Certainly,” Scott replied. He organized his tools and counted vials. He wasn’t too chatty and it made Grant feel awkward and more inclined to start a conversation. They had endured long silences in the lab before, but only when Grant was feeling woozy from the experiments. Scott was the only person Grant had left to talk to.
“Whatcha got for me today?” Grant asked, glancing at Scott’s usual assortment of medical equipment.
Scott walked over and put Grant’s arm flat against his own. He inserted a small needle into the flesh of his upper arm. Then he pulled the needle out and inspected the injection site. The shots rarely hurt, but this one ached instantaneously. Grant felt a little lightheaded and he looked at Scott askew, rubbing his arm.
“That’s a new one,” Grant said.
“A direct injection of the virus.”
Grant shot up and opened his mouth to protest. The word took a bit to form as he felt himself starting to panic. “I told you,” he said, his voice rising. “I want to
know
. You don’t get to do it without warning. I need a chance to prepare. It’s all I’ve asked for.” He felt close to tears. Passing away on the table in the middle of talking about books was not how he needed it to happen. He’d asked Scott numerous times to let him know if the end was near; besides incidentals, it was the only legitimate thing he had asked of Lucy’s father, even though he could think of a million more things he truly wanted instead.
“This won’t kill you,” Scott said matter-of-factly.
“Direct injection? Of the virus that killed everybody?”
“It won’t kill you. You’re immune. Finding out
why
is the next step. But I need to see if your cells respond at
all
. If the virus multiplies at
all
. It’s crucial.”
“Why?” Grant asked.
“Lots of reasons. Are you still a carrier? How does your body respond? Where does the virus become inhibited? At what point in the process does that happen? I have many questions and no answers. You’re puzzling, Grant.”
Grant nodded and rubbed the injection site. When Scott looked down for a second, he wiped his eyes and tried to make it look like he was just scratching an itch.
“I wrote Lucy a letter with the paper you gave me,” Grant said after a moment. The light-headedness passed, but his arm still ached. He hadn’t wanted to tell Scott about the letter yet, but the end seemed closer—more tangible. He’d hate to have his words go to waste.
His statement caused Scott to freeze, and he closed his eyes. When Lucy’s dad opened them, there was a twinkle. A knowing look. Grant regretted mentioning the letter if teasing was on the menu. When it came to their bizarre relationship, Scott often blurred the lines between his role as torturer and his role as Grant’s solitary companion.
“You did?” Scott asked.
“It’s a goodbye…it’s a—” he wanted to say a manifesto, but that wasn’t the right word. It was his final attempt to say what was in his heart. It was a way to keep himself alive in her heart. He hesitated, “She’s my friend. My only friend, I guess.”
Scott leaned against the metal bed and then put a hand on Grant’s shoulder. The gesture felt awkward—an act of fatherly intimacy that Grant felt like Scott didn’t deserve. He looked at Scott and wondered what he would say, how he would respond, if Lucy ever shared the letter with him. Under different circumstances, he might have met Scott as he picked up Lucy for a date. He’d have shaken his hand at the door and exchanged mumbled conversations about dinner plans. He’d have tried to assess what kind of father Scott was going to turn out to be: relaxed and kind, militant and angry. Would he have waited up until they returned? Or would he have left the post-date spying to his wife? Grant shook all those thoughts away. He tried not to entertain them.
When Salem had kissed him outside the journalism room, Grant wished he had been kissing Lucy. But it never seemed like the right time to bring that up; there was nothing like the worry and threat of disaster to thwart romance. As their days and weeks progressed together, he knew that if he could make it through this, he hoped Lucy would remain by his side. He’d wanted her to give him a signal, anything, to let him know that he wasn’t the only one feeling a connection. But she’d been so focused on her family, on Ethan, on the future—it was never the right time.
Besides, it was stupid to daydream about traditional romance. Stupid to think that there was room in this new life for dating, falling in love, planning for the future.
It all seemed ridiculous. Like a rope from the old world he wanted to hold onto until the last possible moment.
“So, do you confess your undying love for my daughter?” Scott asked and he raised his eyebrows.
“No—no,” Grant stammered, suddenly embarrassed. His cheeks flushed. That was new: blushing was not a normal reaction. The letter was void of romantic intentions because he wasn’t going to use his last dying words to make Lucy feel forever tethered to him. There was unfairness in that. He had let her know how much she had meant to him during their weeks of travel. He had hoped to leave her with something positive.
“I always used to joke with Lucy that if she dated a guy and I didn’t get to meet him first, I’d kill him and she’d never be allowed out of the house,” Scott said to Grant. He laughed. “Apparently I’m prophetic,” he said with a smile. Then he stopped laughing, looked at Grant, and started to laugh again. Inappropriate dark humor was a common theme in their conversations. Usually, Grant thought Scott’s brand of humor was endearing. He lacked a certain self-awareness that made Grant feel more comfortable—like a goofy drunk uncle.
Grant gave Scott a half-smile, but out of politeness. “You can read the letter beforehand, if you want.” It was a bluff, but he hoped the transparency would indicate that he had nothing to hide. “It’s not really like that—Lucy and I never…she’s just my friend…are you sure I’m not going to die?” He pointed at his arm.
“Yes, I’m sure. Not today. You’re not going to die today. I can’t explain it yet, but I’m confident about that,” Scott walked back over to Grant and ran his finger over Grant’s arm. “Is that tender?”
With a sniff, Grant nodded. “I have the letter on me. It’s in my pocket. Just…in case.”
“You really don’t trust me? To keep my word? You thought today you’d wake up and I’d just inject you and we’re done?” Scott shook his head. “It’s okay. We have time.” Then Scott turned his head and eyed Grant carefully; the look made Grant draw back.