In the After

I feel her fingers move against my hand, relaying her story in a language only we understand. The movement is comforting, but I remain tense and anxious as we wait for Them to leave. I have no idea what to do with the girl lying beside us.

It is almost dawn before the creatures clear out. Baby has fallen asleep, so I shake her awake. I stand and stretch, my muscles sore from sitting in the same position for too long.

What about her? Baby points to the girl, awake but unmoving. I shrug.

Leave her. My main concern is getting Baby back to the house before first light.

We can’t. Baby’s eyes plead. She’s . . . I can see Baby search for the right word . . . She’s sick.

I want to tell Baby no, that the girl can’t come with us, but I look into her eyes and I can’t. I think of the time I found her in that grocery store, when I almost left her. The guilt is too much.

I reach back into the bushes and grab the girl by the wrist.

“What . . .” she starts to speak. I put my finger over my lips and breathe out slightly. If this girl isn’t going to be quiet, I am going to leave her, no matter what Baby wants.

Luckily the girl gets the idea and follows us, her shoes thumping on the pavement. I stop her and point at her feet. She looks at me blankly. I hold out my own foot, bare and calloused.

She quickly slips off her shoes. She holds them in her arms, waiting. I motion for her to follow and we make our way back home.

“Swanky,” the girl says once we are inside. I look at her, unwilling to speak. Her dark eyes and hair contrast sharply with the whiteness of her skin. She is painfully pale, but then, so am I.

We should give her food. Baby suggests. I nod and Baby runs to make us breakfast.

I show the girl to the basement. It used to be my dad’s work space, but Baby and I made it our reading room. I scavenged a ton of pillows to give it an Arabian Nights feel.

The girl sits on my beanbag chair, unsmiling but not appearing overly distressed. I cross my arms and stare her down.

She scratches her nose and looks back at me, expecting me to speak. Her dark hair is flat against her head, dirty and oily. She is thin, but not painfully skinny, like most of the survivors I encounter.

“Look, I didn’t know those guys. . . . Well, actually, I knew one of them. He’s my brother, I . . . do you even understand me?”

I nod.

She starts again. “My name is Amber.” She pauses, waiting for me to respond. When I don’t, she narrows her eyes. “I don’t know what all this silent treatment is about, but I don’t like it.”

I sigh. My silence has kept me alive. I’m not about to break years of habit for a stranger. I lick my lips, my mouth painfully dry . . . besides, I’m not even sure if I can talk anymore, it’s been so long. I go to my dad’s desk and scrounge around for a notepad and pen. I write, We have to be quiet, the creatures are attracted to noise. They know that voices mean people. There is safety in silence. It would be foolish to drop our guard now, to begin speaking aloud. It could be deadly.

I hand it to Amber and as she reads, understanding dawns on her face.

“It all makes sense now,” she whispers. Her voice carries through the room, making me nervous.

Where have you been? I write. Whisper as quietly as you can.

“My brother, Paul, and I were shut up in a bomb shelter until a few days ago. My parents . . .” She falters. “My parents died right away, my little sister too. Paul and I had lots of food down there without them. My parents were end-of-the-world nuts, you know.”

I nod. I had a great aunt who was like that. She always thought everyone ought to be prepared in case something crazy happened. Like an alien invasion, I suppose. Too bad Aunt Ellie died before she was vindicated.

“We ran out of food,” Amber was saying, “a few days ago. There was only supposed to be enough for a year, but with the rest of my family not making it . . .” She trails off and stares over my shoulder before snapping back. “We probably should have left way before then. We had water but the sewage system stopped working a long time ago. We couldn’t shower and had to . . . use a bucket for a toilet. Paul went first, to see what was going on. He came back last night with those psychos. They said something about creatures, but I didn’t understand. They sent me into the store to look for food. I didn’t know. . . .” She pauses, a look of realization emerges on her face. “Oh, I think I was the bait.”

Bingo.

“Oh God, I can’t believe Paul left me there.” Amber begins to cry softly.

I feel for her. I can’t imagine emerging from a safe, secure place completely unprepared for what the world has become. Amber is so helpless, so loud. There is no way she can survive on her own.

Baby joins us with a tray and three plates piled high with breakfast. She places it on the table in front of Amber. Baby has gone all out. Baked beans, eggs from the pigeons that roost below our solar panels, and Twinkies: the breakfast of champions.

Eat, she signs. Amber nods. Even an idiot can decipher that one. She begins to shovel beans into her mouth, the brown juice running down her chin. She wipes her face on her sleeve.

Can she stay here? Baby asks as if Amber is a puppy. Baby’s eyes are wide and hopeful.

I think for a moment while Amber eats. She unwraps the Twinkie and shoves the whole thing in her mouth.

“These do last forever,” she says. Her mouth is so filled with yellow cake that she spits some out onto the floor. “Sorry,” she apologizes loudly. I hear the electric fence spark. It is day now, and They will be out in full force.

I make the “shush” sign again, pointer finger pressed to my mouth.

Amber nods, exaggerating the motion. She’s finished her meal and licks the plate clean. I give her my share. I’m not very hungry, still unsettled by the bizarre massacre and the arrival of Amber. Baby, on the other hand seems to have forgotten about the commotion. She eats her food slowly, more occupied with staring at Amber curiously.

When they are done eating, Baby stands to clear the plates. Amber grabs her wrist. I move forward to stop her.

“Thank you,” she whispers. I realize she doesn’t mean Baby any harm and I relax.

Baby looks at her blankly. She hasn’t heard English since she was a toddler. By now she’s probably forgotten all she ever knew.

Amber turns to me. “How do you say ‘thank you’?”

I show her. I put my hand to my chin and gesture out and down in a small arc.

Amber turns back to Baby and makes the same motion. Baby’s eyes shine and she smiles.

You’re welcome, she signs, her face glowing as she retreats upstairs.

I give Amber a pillow and a blanket. Sleep, I tell her, using another easy sign. She lies down on the couch and closes her eyes. She must have been exhausted because she falls asleep almost immediately, her breathing slow and deep.

I walk upstairs to talk with Baby. I know she likes the idea of Amber, and I do as well. She is another person to scavenge with us, someone else to watch our backs. We can teach her our language and how to survive in the After. She needs us.

Unfortunately I know that liking the idea of something and dealing with the reality of it are two very different things. What if Amber is more of a burden than a help? What if she never gets the hang of being quiet? What if she can’t deal, turns schizoid, and kills us in our sleep? I stop and take a breath. Amber doesn’t really seem like the murdering type.

Baby is in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. It is one of those energy-efficient ones my dad insisted on,