Walt listened half-heartedly to Moseley's story of escape from Denver, of how he rode a horse across the countryside with his men to get back home to his daughter. Walt asked the fair-skinned girl how old she was. Her chapped lips moved, and she said, "21." Her wrists were delicate, small. They weren't made for the current times. Those wrists couldn't swing a sledgehammer or a bowling ball. Despite the delicacy of her wrists, Kristen was thick. Maybe her wrists would grow the way the rest of her body had. But then it hit him. She had probably weighed more when this all began. No one gained weight anymore. There wasn't enough food for that. Even with a steady diet of junk food, the days were filled with exercise, and Walt never quite felt full, even after he allowed himself a full can of something. No, Kristen was most likely shrinking and becoming the person that had hidden underneath all of her weight. She was probably like Rudy in that respect.
He turned and looked at Rudy. He sat with his arms wrapped around D.J. as the two listened to a story that Allen was telling about a pair of wolf cubs. He almost felt himself smile, but he resisted the urge. He needed to stay on guard. These people might have everyone else fooled, but not Walt. Walt knew the score. Still, he marveled at the transformation in Rudy. He seemed to be losing weight every day. His clothes were baggy, his rope belt had been trimmed twice already. It wasn't good to have loose strings on your person when fighting the dead. If it wasn't for his backpack, Walt wouldn't have any straps on his person at all. He also had the rope cradle for his bowling ball, but, in a worst-case scenario, he could drop the rope and go to the hatchet in a moment's notice.
He was listening to Allen's story, a thinly veiled allegory for the two kids, when he felt a presence sit next to him. It was Kristen. He took in the smell of her. She smelled clean, and then he realized how he probably smelled.
"You're quiet," she said.
"Don't got much to say."
"I find those with nothing to say tend to have the most interesting thoughts."
Her words made him want to squirm. He felt a pressure to be interesting for her. But who was he? He was a no one who was lucky to be alive. There was nothing inherently interesting about him, but for the fact that he still breathed. She smiled at him. "I'm not a big talker, either."
She placed a hand on his hand, and his mouth went dry. Was this some sort of trap?
She stood, pulling him to his feet by his hand. Whiteside looked at him with squinty eyes, clearly pissed that the girl had chosen to spend time with Walt over him.
His breath caught in his throat as she stood, pulling him to his feet. She led him down a hallway, and the sound of muted conversation grew quieter. She led him into a bedroom, and he thought, Oh Lord, this is where they kill me.
Instead, he stepped into a dark room, small by all measurements, made even smaller by the bed against the wall and the dresser at the foot of it. Soft moonlight bounced off the snow and filtered in through the open window.
"What are you…" he began to ask, but he was interrupted by a mouth on his lips.
They kissed then, and he found he liked it. He really liked it.
Their hands fumbled, their mouths tasted each other, and he looked at the pale light reflecting off the white skin of her naked body. He had been wrong earlier. She was beautiful already. He just hadn't known it. He knew it several times that night.
****
Tejada eyed the boy walking with Moseley's daughter, and he interrupted the Corporal's story. He hiked a thumb at their disappearing forms and asked, "Is that going to be a problem?"
Moseley looked at where Tejada was pointing, thought for a second, and then said, "It's a dying world. Let them find joy while there's still some to be found."
Tejada nodded. That was good enough for him.
Moseley finished his story as Tejada polished off a second bowl of stew. It was warm in the living room with all the bodies packed in there. Some of Tejada's men and Moseley's two relatives played cards at the dining room table, keeping their voices low so as not to disturb those that had already fallen asleep. Rudy leaned against the wall, D.J. and Hope snuggled under his arms. Amanda sat to his right. She wasn't asleep yet.
Tejada kneaded his toes on the carpet and stared into the crackling fire. "Do you have any word of what's up ahead?" he asked Moseley.
"No one's come from that direction in quite some time. I suspect the road is blocked. Otherwise, we probably would have seen some traffic, motorcycles, people on bikes. But no one's come through. We always have someone watching the highway. We know if trouble comes our way, the highway's where it's gonna come from."
"What about any other survivors? We had some friends that went before us. Two black men and three white women, you seen anything like that? This would have been at the end of the summer."
Moseley shook his head. "I was still in Idaho on the back of my horse at that time. You can ask Kristen if she ever wakes up."
Tejada shook his head. He understood that the odds of them seeing anyone was a "needle-in-a-haystack" proposition.
"What was Portland like?" Moseley finally asked him.
He had been avoiding the question for some
