In the After

I never pilfered houses directly around where I lived: somehow that would have been wrong. I’d known those people. They weren’t the faceless masses. They were neighbors, my parent’s friends, and with associations would have come memories, which I didn’t want. In those early days, before I’d hardened, my only chance for survival relied on maintaining tight control over my emotional life. Breakdown would have meant death, but sometimes a memory would open the gate a crack.

I found a promising house a few blocks from home, with no broken windows but an open door. I had hope that maybe the family that lived there made it out of the city before They showed up. Whoever stayed there had clearly tried to hurry, probably left at the first sign of trouble. I stepped inside, quickly helping myself to their canned goods. I searched the bedrooms for winter clothes, unsure if I would be able to use the heat in the winter. I’d been stockpiling blankets and coats.

One bedroom was painted all lavender and I assumed it belonged to a teenage girl. I went to the closet, hoping the clothes would be my size. On the floor next to the closet was a yearbook from my high school. I sat on the floor and thumbed through it. It was from the previous year, so my picture was in the freshman section. I paused over Sabrina’s photo, feeling my throat catch at the sight of her smile. I remembered being so jealous that her picture came out better than mine. One of my tears hit the page and I quickly flipped to the front section, which had scrawled notes to have a great summer and good luck in college.

Trembling, I quietly closed the yearbook and set it back on the floor. Whoever owned it would not be in college now, and they certainly did not have a great summer. I wiped the tears from my face and composed myself, my stomach aching from the unexpected glimpse of what was.

I left there with my bag of cans and walked toward my house, exhausted and ready to call it quits for the night. That’s when I saw a house with a light on in the basement. A light? Someone’s home. I stopped, stunned. Someone else had a generator or solar panels. Someone else was alive.

I crept toward the window cautiously, painfully aware that light attracted Them. I looked all around me; something was very odd. For some reason, I glanced up. Over the basement window, about eight feet up, hung a refrigerator suspended from a cable. It was a trap. I smiled. A trap for Them.

I backed away slowly, not wanting to trip over whatever mechanism would spring the trap. I searched my pack for a pen and ripped out a blank page from one of the books I’d taken.

My hands shook as I scribbled, I’m alive too. I’ll be back here at midnight tomorrow. I looked at the paper and added, Please.

Elated, I placed the note under a rock just in reach of the light from the window. Whoever rigged the trap would see it when they came to check if they were successful. I figured I could return for a couple of nights.

When I came back the next night the trap was sprung, but the note was still there. Whoever set the trap had not yet returned. I placed my note closer to the fallen refrigerator, glad that the creature underneath was almost entirely covered. Its feet stuck out awkwardly and I thought of the Wicked Witch’s sister from The Wizard of Oz. We’re sure as hell not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

I had to suppress a laugh, but then the creature’s leg twitched and I realized that its slaughter was recent. I backed away, cautious that others could be close by. I walked home, slightly disappointed but also hopeful, knowing I could return the next night.

For two days I waited, with no one in sight. I wondered if they kept track of time or owned a watch. I still wore my dad’s old-school digital. More for the memory of him than anything else. I wanted to wear my mom’s Cartier, but the ticking was too loud in the absolute quiet. Each night I began to doubt my plan. I wondered briefly what the person or people were like; what if they were avoiding me on purpose? What if they were unfriendly? The thought of being able to interact with another human being made me desperate.

On the third night, there was someone waiting, crouching in the bushes. I was used to watching for Them, so I spotted him at once.

“I can see you,” I told him in the loudest whisper I dared. “Hello? Please come out.”

He stood and looked me over. I couldn’t see him well in the dark, but he was tall and his shaggy hair framed a face I couldn’t quite make out. Backing away, he waved for me to follow. I almost couldn’t believe that there was another human alive. I wanted to yell or hoot, but I swallowed my enthusiasm and tried to calm myself. Even so, I was shaking slightly as I trailed behind him to an apartment building a few blocks away. He unlocked the entrance door and motioned me inside.

We went up several flights. Some of the stairs creaked, making me uncomfortable. It wasn’t long ago that I would never have dreamed of following a man to his apartment.

At the top floor, the man unlocked the door and went inside. I looked up and down the hall, hesitating for just a moment before going in after him. He shut and locked the door with a click. Then he flipped on a switch and I was startled by the sudden brightness. I looked to the windows but they were blacked out, keeping Them from spotting the glow. A gentle hum sounded from another room.

“You can talk. They won’t hear us,” he told me.

I looked at him clearly in the light. He wasn’t young, but he wasn’t old either, probably about my father’s age. Fortyish. I wrinkled my nose. In his enclosed condo, I could smell him for the first time. It was likely he hadn’t showered since Before. His shaggy, blond hair almost covered his eyes and an unkempt beard framed his face. I guessed he hadn’t shaved since Before either.

“Who are you?” I asked. “I mean, what’s your name?”

“Jake.” He held out his hand and I shook it. His hand was firm, his skin rough. It was strange to touch another person.

“I’m Amy,” I said, my voice unsure. He still hadn’t released my hand, so I pulled it away awkwardly.

“Sorry.” He grinned. “I’m just surprised to see another live human around. It’s a shock.”

“How . . . You set that trap by yourself?” I asked.

“Construction worker by day.” He grinned again. “Drummer by night. Well, I was a drummer. There’s no band anymore.”

“There’s not anything anymore,” I said quietly.

“Whoa, negative Nancy.” He ran his fingers through his greasy hair. “We’re still here.”

I bit my lip, ashamed. I didn’t want to alienate my first human contact. “So, you were in a band? That’s fan.”

“Fan?” he asked.

“Fantastic . . . It’s what my friends and I used to say,” I explained. Sabrina and I started it as a joke, to make fun of the people at our school who insisted on talking in text-speak. Sabrina and I had whole conversations where we pretended to be bubbleheads and only used the first syllables of words. The rest of our friends got annoyed with us real fast, but subbing fan for fantastic stuck.

“Fan.” Jake tilted his head and stared at me. “I like that.”

“What kind of music did you play?” I asked, mostly because I didn’t know what else to say to him. I read in Cosmo once that you can put people at ease by asking them questions on topics that interest them. The problem was Jake seemed completely comfortable, I was the one who needed to chill. I had wanted to see someone for so long, but now it all felt so strange and unreal.

“Death metal,” he told me with a grin. “We used to make a ton of noise in here.” He motioned toward the walls. “That’s why we can talk; I had the place soundproofed. The neighbors were always bitching about the noise.”

I looked around, uncertain of what to say. Jake’s condo was nice. He had fancy furniture and paintings on the walls. One in particular caught my eye.

I gawked. “Is that . . .?”

“A Picasso,” Jake shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking, but it would have just sat abandoned in the Art Institute. Besides, we have to enjoy the finer things in life, otherwise what’s the point of surviving?”

“I suppose.” I was uneasy about it but wasn’t sure why it bothered me. Why not take priceless art? . . . It was hardly stealing. There was no one else around to enjoy it.

“What about you, Amy?” he asked. “How did you survive? You look like you’re about twelve.”

“I’m fourteen,” I corrected him. I wanted to add that I read at a college level and was very mature for my