In the After

got home was rig another bag from the car alarms I’d scavenged.

I didn’t know then that the awful exchange with Jake would be the last real conversation I would have for a very, very long time.

A clap of thunder brings me back to reality, away from the past. I scan again for any new ships, but the sky is empty except for dark gray clouds. The heavier rain will come soon. I’ll be able to climb down the tree and return home before long.

I try not to think about Jake and what happened that night. But I had learned a few very important things about survival. I also learned where They go at night.

While I hid in the bushes all those years ago, I watched Them shuffle back from their kill. One by one, They lay on the ground and slinked down a rain gutter. I would not have thought it possible, but they are small and bend in incredible ways. Even their bones seem flexible. That’s where They will be now, while the sky is darkening and the heavy downpour threatening to burst through the clouds. They will head underground to the sewers.

As soon as the drizzle turns into a torrent, I slide down the tree and jog home. Baby is happy to see me. She greets me with a towel and a change of clothes.

Did you see it? she signs, her quivering hands betraying her concern. The ship?

I nod.

Is it Them? she asks.

Yes.

Where did it come from?

I don’t know, I say, no longer sure that I want to find out.

CHAPTER NINE

We spot the ships weekly now, their presence becoming more common. So are our run-ins with other survivors. It used to be once a year, when the weather turned warm. Now I spot other people about once a month, usually when the moon is only a sliver in the sky, providing the most cover of darkness. They are coming to the cities from the country. They figure if anyone else is alive, this is where they’ll be. They don’t seem to understand that it is also where the creatures prefer to live and feed.

I develop a system for dealing with strangers. I never show myself to groups of people. A group is more likely to turn on me, try to steal my resources for themselves. I read a book once about mass hysteria, how people can do anything if others are doing it too. In the After, even three people can be considered a mob, and I’m not taking any chances.

I avoid lone men for obvious reasons. I sometimes make my presence known to women, depending on how scrawny they look, how much they seem to need assistance. I don’t speak to them, but I let them see me. I nod and motion toward a sewer drain, make a cutting sign across my throat. They get the picture. I also point in the direction of the lake and pretend to drink a glass of water. I always make Baby hide when there are people around. You never know who you can trust.

Poor Baby. I look at her sometimes and think about my own childhood. I used to go to the zoo and shop on weekends with my friends. Baby tags along with me to silently scavenge dead people’s homes. I had pizza and home-cooked meals. She has canned food and badly charred squirrel that we catch in rattraps. I had two loving, if a little wacky, parents. She only has me.

Most important, I had sunlight. Now we both live in a dark world. We go to the roof sometimes, during the day, but I find it eerie. The silent city, Them shuffling underneath us. At night we can at least make some noise. We discovered that They ignored the hum of the air conditioner or the heat pumping through winter, but they came running when the microwave beeped. I was confident the fence would hold, but I didn’t know for how long, so it was better not to test it. We learned to do everything as quietly as possible. We live like monks. Silent, pasty, scared monks.

What’s this one about? Baby asks, handing me a book. I glance at it: Pride and Prejudice.

It’s about two people who love each other but are too stupid to figure it out until the end of the story.

Baby looks disappointed. But, I add, the woman is very smart and the man is very handsome.

What’s that? She points at the cover: Mr. Darcy on a horse. I grab the sign language dictionary and look up the word horse to show her.

They’re from Before, I tell her. That’s what I usually say when I don’t know how to explain something, like airplanes and Christmas.

She nods and looks at the horse longingly. I smile. I guess every little girl wants a horse, even ones who don’t know what a horse is. I wonder if there are any horses left. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a dog. There are cats around, ones feral enough to make it on their own. Cats have the right combination of animal characteristics to survive Them. They are silent and like to hang out in trees. Birds do well, too. Dogs and larger animals, not so much.

And this one? Baby asks.

Too old, I tell her. I’m not up to explaining the entire plot of The Merchant of Venice. Greed, revenge, and racism are topics for another day.

Baby tugs on my sleeve, points to a new book. I scan the cover. This one is about a monster, I say without thinking, pausing at Baby’s horrified expression. Monster was the word I’d assigned to Them.

Not a monster, I correct myself. I meant a thing. . . . How could I explain Frankenstein to someone who has seen real monsters?

It’s a story from Before. I take the book from her and place it high up on the shelf. Now, this is a good one. I hand her a picture book that I loved when I was growing up, one I asked to be read to me every night for a year. The Little Mermaid. I let her look at the pictures and tell me how the story goes. Her version is a lot happier than the Hans Christian Andersen one and much less gory. My father was pleased how much I appreciated the tale; he said it taught children consequences and that not all endings are happy.

Baby, though, ends with They all lived happily ever after, just like I taught her.

I hope, she tells me, that we can live happily ever after.

I hug her, trying not to cry. You and me both, I think, kissing the top of her head.

I like this one, Baby signs into my hand. She holds up a candy bar, its wrapper dusty and crinkled.

Is it sealed? I ask. At this point everything in the grocery store is expired, but things last a lot longer than companies let on. It’s all those preservatives. I taught Baby to check for rancid chips and candy and to only gather cans that have no dents and aren’t all bulgy. We have stomach medicine at home, but I don’t want to trust treating botulism with three-year-old pink bismuth.

Yes, it’s sealed. Baby smiles up at me. Also, I found this. She holds up a box of macaroni and cheese. She manages to move the box without all the noodles crashing together like a maraca.

Fan, I tell her. Good job. I taught Baby “fan” as very good. I made up the sign: hand just below your face, gesture like you’re fanning yourself on a hot summer day. I