This Isn't the Zombie Apocalypse

9. Ana Loses the Race

Dinner was awkward.

Beyond awkward, actually. If there was a word to describe seeing tension it wouldn't even begin to describe the awkwardness. This awkwardness was the moment where you went to kiss your date and farted, puked on your hero, wet your pants on live television, and any other type of embarrassing thing times ten. No—times one hundred. A thousand!

(I mean, I practically—okay, maybe not practically—attempted to strangle Ana, or at the very least inflict extreme pain, and then her dad saw the whole thing and stopped me. And now he was glaring daggers at me, because, again, I was eating dinner with them. After attempting to kill his daughter. Or just strangle. Until death.)

(Sorry, but did something about this whole situation seem... messed up?)

Shifting lower in my seat, trying to no avail to ignore the holes burning in my forehead, I poked at my mashed potatoes. As it turns out, even a teenage boy could have his appetite lost after a year of lack of nutrition and an angry dad mentally stabbing him with his fork.

This whole glaring and killing thing made me think I was getting the cold shoulder from the father who didn't want his baby girl to date. Of course, that daughter would be Ana Renee. Which was gross. Really gross. She was, what, three years younger than me? Four? Four, nearing five.

She made me feel old, like an old man who had seen too much yet did not know nearly enough.

And wasn't that just oddly deep? Ugh, I sounded like my father.

Stomach bulging, I sighed and leaned back, pushing—more like violently shoving and then trying to bury alive—the previous, disturbing thoughts. Ana's dad was still debating on the best way to kill me, and her mom didn't look much happier to have me over. But, strangely enough, Ana had insisted I stay and eat—whether from pity or a sadistic urge to watch me squirm, I didn't know. Maybe she even wanted to see if I'd gorge myself enough to puke, which was a close thing. She did, though, and I wasn't about to turn down food, especially a home cooked meal. Living to see another day was much easier on a full belly.

For that matter, so was sleeping. My eyes drooped, and my frame began to slouch, head lolling. Mrs. Renee gave a slightly worried look. "Are you okay?" she asked, brows furrowing; she leaned over the table to get a better look at me.

Blinking blearily, I forced myself to lean forward. "Yeah, just—y'know—tired." A yawn escaped my lips.

"Well, then," Mr. Renee interrupted, voice tinged with irritation. "You should probably get home."

I stiffened at that, because home was such a foreign word. I hadn't been home... Did I even have a home anymore? Living on the streets, constantly on the move, never sleeping in the same bed (or on the same ground) for more than one night (or day) at a time—it sure didn't sound like I had a home. A pang shot through my heart, a sudden realization to what my life had come to. Who didn't have a home? Isn't home where the heart is? Then where is my heart?

Lost, a voice in my head murmured cruelly. Your heart is lost. Or maybe you don't even have one anymore. Harming little girls? Killing innocent citizens? It doesn't sound like you have a heart.

Suddenly worried, I swallowed the lump in my throat. Wincing as I pushed back the chair with an ear-splitting screech, I stood, face slowly forming into a stone mask. I gave a tight smile to Mr. and Mrs. Renee. "Thank you so much for dinner. It was delicious."

Then I strode to front door, picking up my backpack on the way, and left. Awkward wasn't the word to describe the meal; more... painful than anything. Maybe that was why I loathed Ana so much—it wasn't really hate at all, just intense jealousy. I had no way of knowing she had a family—a loving, protective family—but maybe it was a gut instinct. It didn't make sense, but had anything in my life lately made sense?

I was halfway down the road, about to make a turn and leave the Renee family behind forever, when I heard a loud slam and shouting: "You doofus, don't you want to sleep in an actual bed?"

I froze momentarily, only one thought whizzing through my brain: Why would she help me? It had been made official long ago—well, it sure felt like long ago, but it really wasn't—that we despised each other's presence, so why continue to keep in touch? Keep me around? Then my body reacted and I was back to walking down the sidewalk, as if I had not heard a thing.

"And we still need to talk about this 'Other' crap!" The door was slammed shut, and then there were loud, uncoordinated stomps from sloppy running.

Well, that explained things.

"What?" I whirled around, glare as cold as I could get it.

Ana, panting heavily, pointed an accusing finger at me as she tiredly moved toward me. "We should"—she took a deep breath—"figure things out." Another deep breath. "It could be important." Another. "Probably is." She coughed, the sound ugly and sick-sounding.

"What makes you think so?" I asked, crossing my arms defiantly. "What if this is all just a coincidence?"

Ana shook her head, bending forward on her knees. "It—it isn't."

"Oh for goodness sake!" Stepping forward, I moved Ana into an upright position. "Don't bend over—it constricts your lungs. Let them expand. Stand straight. If you have a stitch in your side, put your hands above your head."

Nodding, Ana did as I told her, breathlessly mouthing, "Okay."

"Now walk," I ordered, giving her a gentle shove in the direction of her house.

Ana began walking—slowly, snail-slow, but we were getting there, steadily increasing in speed as Ana regained some energy.

"You're really outta shape," I mindlessly commented, glancing back down the sidewalk. I could make a run for it; really, I could. No one could stop me. Even though I wasn't in perfect health, I was too fast, too used to running. But I didn't. I stayed. And all of it—the hatred but obvious connection, the meet and the need to stay—didn't make sense. It went against all human instincts. At least, I was pretty sure.

"Yeah," panted Ana. "But I have my reasons."

I didn't say anything to that, choosing to make it a conversation for another time. Right now, there was something else in mind. "Now what was it you wanted to say—about us meeting, and how it isn't a coincidence?"

Ana turned to me, eyes dark, older, wiser—a sort ofpained melancholy that I had never seen before. "Something you said," shewhispered. "Something I think happened to you that happened to me. Something...something that happened a little over a year ago."