This Isn't the Zombie Apocalypse

8. Food-That's It, Really

I was so deep in thought, I hadn't even realized when Ana had stopped in front of a house and opened the front door.

"Are you coming or what?" she snapped, waving at the opening with her other hand.

I blinked, neck craning as I looked around. "Where are we?" I asked, peering inside the house but not stepping in.

Ana rolled her eyes, easily slipping through the entrance and toeing off her shoes. "Where have you been for the past day? We're at my house, numskull."

"Oh." Nervously, I walked inside, not taking off my shoes—I never knew when I had to bolt. "So, this is where you live, huh?"

"Yes," Ana replied, sarcasm dripping off her words. "Normally, when someone says, 'This is where I live,' they live there." She shook her head, briskly moving down the front hall to what I determined was the kitchen.

Which had food.

I took off after her, feeling how light my backpack was. My supplies were basically gone, and that meant if I had to take off again, I would have nothing to keep me going on the abandoned streets—no food, no water. And that scared me, because then I would have to go find some, and more food and water was by people who could die and—

I cut off my thoughts there. There was no purpose in dwelling in the past. Or the probable future. I lived in the present. Sort of.

The kitchen was small yet expensive. Granite counters, tile flooring, warm-colored wooden cabinets. And a large white refrigerator. Ana's nose was inside the refrigerator, hands pushing aside food so she could get exactly what she wanted. My stomach grumbled as she pulled out a pack of pre-sliced ham and stuffed a piece in her mouth.

Ana jerked her head to me at the sound of my growling stomach, eyebrows raised. She held up the pack, and I greedily snatched it from her and jammed several slices in my watering mouth. Smirking, Ana let out a chuckle, taking another piece and dangling it in the air in front of my face. "Hungry much?" she taunted.

I swiped the piece of meat from her and placed it in my mouth all in one swift motion. "Yes," I said after swallowing. "I'm a growing teenage boy."

Ana leaned back at that, eyes roving over my body—not checking me out, mind you. She was twelve for Pete's sake! "Looks like you're starving to me," she stated, taking another ham slice before digging through the refrigerator once more.

I gulped at that, suddenly self-conscious. I knew I was skinny from lack of nutrition, and the fact that I was constantly moving didn't help the fact that I never got enough food. Having someone else point it out, however, was different. It meant I not only felt starved, but I looked it too. Maybe not too much, with sunken eyes and taut skin, but my ribs were easily visible and my arms and legs were bony. It was probably easy enough to see.

"Just haven't had a good meal in a year or so. Since last February. That's all," I muttered, chomping down on some more ham.

Ana stiffened at that, arms frozen. "A year?" she asked. "Why?"

"Stuff," I replied vaguely.

"What stuff—?"

I interrupted her. "Look, do you have anything else to eat? Maybe some supplies I can pack up?"

Ana sighed, defeated. "Later," she told me. "We'll talk about this later." Okay, maybe not so much defeated.

Then she slid around the island—something I did not notice before—but I blame food for my horrible observation skills—to a door that I also had not noticed. It was a normal door, with a normal doorknob and normal hinges. For a second, I wondered why Ana's family would keep a closet in their kitchen. But then Ana opened the door and flicked on a light.

Food. Lots of glorious, non-perishable food.

The closet was a pantry. Of course. How stupid of me to think otherwise.

My little light bulb moment didn't last long, though, because I was launching myself over the island and digging through the pantry in less than a second. Pop-tarts, Ritz crackers, beef jerky, and any other type of unhealthy snack you could think of, even those weird stick-bread things that had the fake cheese in a little square at the end—they all went into my backpack. I was in junk-food heaven. And, to make everything better, the foods I packed took forever to go bad. It meant I didn't have to worry about eating everything at once early on or eating stale, nasty food—something I wasn't totally against by now, but, still.

Then, I spotted water bottles. Lots of them. Those were jammed into my backpack as well, because they were bottles of water and I no longer had to ration my water every day because there were bottles of water.

I was ecstatic to be surrounded by so much food that I was being allowed to take; not stealing or taking some from a person I had gotten killed in the first place. Fingers fumbling, I unwrapped a bag of bread and crammed a slice and a half in my mouth. My jaw hurt from filling it too much and I had to breathe through my nose, but it wasn't even possible for me to care less. Even if I puked, I couldn't care less. Well, maybe if I puked. But that was it!

Fingers skimming over the shelves, I picked up an unopened, brand spankin' new bag of potato chips. Potato chips. When was the last time I had potato chips? Since before my life flipped upside-down. Since before I died. Since... forever. I popped the bag open and was about to dig in when someone interrupted me—by snorting quite loudly.

"You're gonna choke," giggled Ana, covering her face with her hands.

I managed to swallow the lump of bread, but it stuck in my chest. My eyes watered as I reached for a bottle of water and chugged down half of it in three seconds. "You're gonna choke on those snorts of yours," I finally managed to shoot back, glaring at her for rudely interrupting the glorious moment. The brat didn't understand.

Ana frowned at that, eyes narrowing to slits. "It's not my fault!" she shouted indignantly, hands thrown up in the air. "I can't breathe correctly and that causes me to snort—"

"Hey," I cut in. "If it makes you feel any better, it's a lovely snort. Very lady-like. It would make the queen proud."

Ana swatted my arm and stole my half-empty—half-full for all those optimists out there—water bottle from me. Bread and ham chunks were floating around in it, and I grimaced in disgust; I hadn't done anything like that since I was three, maybe four years-old. It was plain gross and went to show that I was way too thirsty and hungry to care.

Ana's frown deepened at one quick glance at the water bottle, and then she turned her frown at me. "You can have it back."

I reached out to grab it, but quick as a flash, Ana was dumping the water bottle's contents on my head. How she even reached up there is a mystery only she can solve, because I had at least half a foot on her. But that was beside the point. The point was that Ana had just poured revolting water on my head; and now there was a searing bubbling in my chest and stomach, and I wanted to push her in the doorway and slam the door on her repeatedly.

My face burned and my vision turned red, like lava was rushing to my cheeks, but some of it misdirected and ended up in my eyes. Hands coming together to choke the freaking Life out of Ana, I lunged.

But I didn't get to even touch her, because there was a large hand on my chest and a pair of disapproving brown eyes—that looked identical to Ana's, by the way—staring at me. "Don't touch my daughter," the person rumbled, and I gulped.

"Hi, Dad!" Ana beamed, all giggly and cute like she hadn't just tried to drown me in dirty water.

I hated Ana. And, so far, I hated her family, too.