This Isn't the Zombie Apocalypse

19. Well, That Isn't Creepy at All

I stayed up the rest of the day, face pressed against the window in hopes of finding a clue.

By the time the sun was setting, my hopes were pretty much crushed. Calvin had used his memory, which was still sharp, to navigate out of the city, remembering which paths were blocked, buried, or dead ends. We thought we were on the right track, but without any actual proof or voodoo magic there was no way to tell.

So, yeah, we thought we were on the right track, but it didn't mean that we were.

I could already hear my dad: "That's what you get for thoughtin' instead of thinkin'." It was one of his weird sayings, like "Who pissed in your corn flakes?" (Basically, one was an old way of saying, "Why are you so cranky?" and the other was about how the past is different from the present and that things change. At least, I think. I thought.) (This tense thing is difficult, okay?)

The buildings had shrunk, gradually getting shorter and less expensive and extravagant, though they were still breaking down. Neighborhoods were forming, the suburbs now prominent. The people who had clustered in the dark, gloomy streets appeared less often, and I even saw a little girl with striking long white-blonde hair, her face smashed against window of a paint-peeling, crumbling home. She had smiled, laughed, and pointed at the car, twisting around to tell someone the news. Except... it didn't look like anyone else was in the house; it was only her, all alone, in her dirty flower dress. And I could tell, because there were no curtains and the window was in the perfect spotlight. The yard was overgrown, but all the grass was dead, yellow and brown, withered away. The only thing besides the house, the yard, and the girl was a large rock placed haphazardly in the grass, resembling a grave marker, with a picture of two platinum blonde girls, who seemed to glow with halos wrapped around their heads, taped to it.

Creepy? Most definitely. Reminded me a bit too much of a girl currently residing in the hospital I just left? Oh, yeah—that was definite, too.

The little girl turned back to smash her face flat against the window, eyes wide, mouth still moving, like, "Look, it's sissy's car! Shiny!"

I wanted to get away. So, so far away.

But then the car shuttered to a stop.

Calvin slammed down his hand on the steering wheel, muttering Ana-appropriate curses. I guess she rubbed off on people that way. "Looks like there wasn't very much gas left. I was hoping we wouldn't have to use any of the remaining supplies." He flicked the arrow that pointed at one-fourths from empty. "This is messed up," he muttered. "Get a jug, would you?" Then he pushed open the door and stepped outside, leaving me in the car, watching as the girl jumped up and scrambled away from the window. "Cal," called Calvin, and I heaved up and container and got out, mindlessly handing it to Calvin.

I didn't know if he wanted more, or if he got more, because I was too busy staring, waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Anticipating. Anxiety swirled around in my stomach, dragging it down to the ground.

And then the front door creaked open ominously, and out stepped the little girl, at least six, at most eight years old. Colorful, vibrant flowers swirled around her, lively and bright against the white fabric, and a smile stretched across her face till it nearly split in half. A tooth was missing, in the front, on the top row. Humming a little tune, she skipped down the driveway, over the grass, passed the sidewalk, and she stopped right in front of me. Her head tilted, long hair tumbling down to her waist. The smile was still there, blinding white, just like her hair and pale skin. Rocking back and forth on her heels, hands twisted behind her back, the girl asked slyly, "Are you my sister's boyfriend?" She giggled at her own question.