Hunger
Page 23
Astrid was religious, so probably no, she was not lying in her bed thinking of him. Almost certainly not. Although when they kissed she didn’t seem like she was pulling away. She loved him, he knew that for sure. And he loved her. With all his heart.
But there were other feelings, in addition to love. Kind of attached to the love feeling, but different, too.
And Chinese. Oh, man, the little white cardboard boxes full of sweet-and-sour chicken and lemon chicken and Szechuan prawns. He’d never cared much for Chinese food. But it beat cans of butter beans and half-cooked pinto beans and what passed for tortillas made out of flour and oil and water and burned on a stove.
Someone would probably come and wake him up, soon, only he wouldn’t be asleep. They came almost every night. Sam, something’s burning. Sam, someone’s hurt. Sam, a kid crashed a car. Sam, we caught Orc all drunk and breaking windows for no reason.
It wouldn’t be Sam, the pizza’s here.
It wouldn’t be Astrid saying Sam, I’m here.
Sam drifted off to sleep. Astrid came in. She stood in the doorway, beautiful in her gauzy nightgown, and said, Sam, it’s okay, E.Z.’s alive.
Even asleep, Sam knew that was a dream.
An hour later Taylor simply appeared, teleported into his room—she called it “bouncing”—and said, “Sam, wake up.”
No dream, this time. It was often Taylor who brought the bad news. She or Brianna, if either was available. They were the fastest means of communication.
“What is it, Taylor?”
“You know Tom? Tom O’Dell?”
Sam didn’t think he did. His brain was not focusing. He couldn’t seem to quite wake up.
“Anyway, there was a fight between Tom and the girls who live next door—Sandy and . . . and I forget the other girl. Tom got hurt pretty bad from Sandy hitting him with a bowling ball.”
Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed, but could not keep his eyes open. “What? Why did she hit him with a bowling ball?”
“She says Tom killed her cat,” Taylor said. “And then he was cooking it on the barbecue in his backyard.”
That at last penetrated Sam’s bleary brain. “Okay. Okay.” He stood up and fumbled around for his jeans. He had gotten over the embarrassment of being seen in his underwear.
Taylor handed him his pants. “Here.”
“Bounce back. Tell them I’m coming.”
Taylor disappeared, and for a moment Sam tried to tell himself that this was just another dream. There was nothing, after all, that he could do about a dead cat.
But it was his duty to show up. If he started blowing off his duties, it would look bad.
“Set a good example,” he muttered under his breath as he crept silently past Astrid’s door.
EIGHT
88 HOURS, 52 MINUTES
ORSAY PETTIJOHN STOOD transfixed. Two kids, the first human beings she had seen in three months, and both were bizarre, creepy. In the one boy’s case, monstrous.
One was some sort of a demon with a thick tentacle where his right arm should have been.
The other . . . she wasn’t even sure the other was there for a moment. He appeared, then he disappeared.
The boy with the frightening tentacle stared after the invisible one. Not quite invisible, Orsay realized when the boy stepped into a pool of light, but close enough. Then the boy with the python arm sighed, cursed under his breath, and opened the creaking door of a Toyota that had unaccountably run fifty feet off the road.
The boy evidently wanted the window open, but the battery was dead. So he drew a gun, aimed it at the driver’s side window, and fired. The bang was so loud that Orsay gasped. She would have given away her position, but the sound of the explosion also camouflaged the sound of her cry.
Orsay squatted in the dark, in the dirt, and waited. The boy with the python arm would almost certainly go to sleep.
And then it would begin again.
Orsay had been living at the ranger station in the Stefano Rey National Park on the day everyone disappeared.
She had been mystified. She had been frightened.
She had also been relieved.
Just about three months earlier, she had been begging her father for help.
“What do you mean?” he had asked. He’d been busy poring over paperwork. There was a lot of paperwork involved in being a ranger. It wasn’t just about helping find lost hikers and making sure campers didn’t set the woods on fire while they were toasting marshmallows.
She had wanted to make him pay attention to her. Just to her. Not phony attention where he was really focused on his work. “Dad, I’m going nuts or something.”
That declaration had earned her a dubious glance. “Is this about going to see your mom? Because I told you, she’s still not ready. She loves you very much, but she’s not ready for the responsibility.”
That was a lie, but a well-intentioned one. Orsay knew about her mother’s drug addiction. She knew about her mother’s trips to rehab, each of which was followed by a period of normalcy where she would take Orsay, and put her in school, and arrange tidy little family dinners. Always just enough normal time for Orsay to think, maybe this time, before she would once again find her mother’s “works” stashed in the back of a cupboard, or find her mother barely conscious and sprawled across the couch.
Her mother was a heroin addict. She’d been a secret heroin addict for a long time, faking it well during the early years when she’d still been married to Orsay’s father and they’d lived in Oakland. Orsay’s father had worked out of the park service regional headquarters.
But there were other feelings, in addition to love. Kind of attached to the love feeling, but different, too.
And Chinese. Oh, man, the little white cardboard boxes full of sweet-and-sour chicken and lemon chicken and Szechuan prawns. He’d never cared much for Chinese food. But it beat cans of butter beans and half-cooked pinto beans and what passed for tortillas made out of flour and oil and water and burned on a stove.
Someone would probably come and wake him up, soon, only he wouldn’t be asleep. They came almost every night. Sam, something’s burning. Sam, someone’s hurt. Sam, a kid crashed a car. Sam, we caught Orc all drunk and breaking windows for no reason.
It wouldn’t be Sam, the pizza’s here.
It wouldn’t be Astrid saying Sam, I’m here.
Sam drifted off to sleep. Astrid came in. She stood in the doorway, beautiful in her gauzy nightgown, and said, Sam, it’s okay, E.Z.’s alive.
Even asleep, Sam knew that was a dream.
An hour later Taylor simply appeared, teleported into his room—she called it “bouncing”—and said, “Sam, wake up.”
No dream, this time. It was often Taylor who brought the bad news. She or Brianna, if either was available. They were the fastest means of communication.
“What is it, Taylor?”
“You know Tom? Tom O’Dell?”
Sam didn’t think he did. His brain was not focusing. He couldn’t seem to quite wake up.
“Anyway, there was a fight between Tom and the girls who live next door—Sandy and . . . and I forget the other girl. Tom got hurt pretty bad from Sandy hitting him with a bowling ball.”
Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed, but could not keep his eyes open. “What? Why did she hit him with a bowling ball?”
“She says Tom killed her cat,” Taylor said. “And then he was cooking it on the barbecue in his backyard.”
That at last penetrated Sam’s bleary brain. “Okay. Okay.” He stood up and fumbled around for his jeans. He had gotten over the embarrassment of being seen in his underwear.
Taylor handed him his pants. “Here.”
“Bounce back. Tell them I’m coming.”
Taylor disappeared, and for a moment Sam tried to tell himself that this was just another dream. There was nothing, after all, that he could do about a dead cat.
But it was his duty to show up. If he started blowing off his duties, it would look bad.
“Set a good example,” he muttered under his breath as he crept silently past Astrid’s door.
EIGHT
88 HOURS, 52 MINUTES
ORSAY PETTIJOHN STOOD transfixed. Two kids, the first human beings she had seen in three months, and both were bizarre, creepy. In the one boy’s case, monstrous.
One was some sort of a demon with a thick tentacle where his right arm should have been.
The other . . . she wasn’t even sure the other was there for a moment. He appeared, then he disappeared.
The boy with the frightening tentacle stared after the invisible one. Not quite invisible, Orsay realized when the boy stepped into a pool of light, but close enough. Then the boy with the python arm sighed, cursed under his breath, and opened the creaking door of a Toyota that had unaccountably run fifty feet off the road.
The boy evidently wanted the window open, but the battery was dead. So he drew a gun, aimed it at the driver’s side window, and fired. The bang was so loud that Orsay gasped. She would have given away her position, but the sound of the explosion also camouflaged the sound of her cry.
Orsay squatted in the dark, in the dirt, and waited. The boy with the python arm would almost certainly go to sleep.
And then it would begin again.
Orsay had been living at the ranger station in the Stefano Rey National Park on the day everyone disappeared.
She had been mystified. She had been frightened.
She had also been relieved.
Just about three months earlier, she had been begging her father for help.
“What do you mean?” he had asked. He’d been busy poring over paperwork. There was a lot of paperwork involved in being a ranger. It wasn’t just about helping find lost hikers and making sure campers didn’t set the woods on fire while they were toasting marshmallows.
She had wanted to make him pay attention to her. Just to her. Not phony attention where he was really focused on his work. “Dad, I’m going nuts or something.”
That declaration had earned her a dubious glance. “Is this about going to see your mom? Because I told you, she’s still not ready. She loves you very much, but she’s not ready for the responsibility.”
That was a lie, but a well-intentioned one. Orsay knew about her mother’s drug addiction. She knew about her mother’s trips to rehab, each of which was followed by a period of normalcy where she would take Orsay, and put her in school, and arrange tidy little family dinners. Always just enough normal time for Orsay to think, maybe this time, before she would once again find her mother’s “works” stashed in the back of a cupboard, or find her mother barely conscious and sprawled across the couch.
Her mother was a heroin addict. She’d been a secret heroin addict for a long time, faking it well during the early years when she’d still been married to Orsay’s father and they’d lived in Oakland. Orsay’s father had worked out of the park service regional headquarters.
